La Nuit Porte Conseil
by catcorsair
Summary: In two days, Christine will marry Raoul––because Erik asked it of her. But is that what she wants? In this orphic world beneath the Opera, nothing is as it seems. And when it comes to the demands of the Angel, has Christine ever had a choice? Post-Leroux. M at Ch.5, T before. DARK / psychological. IN PROGRESS
1. Chapter 1

_**La Nuit Porte Conseil**_

_Chapter One_

_**A/N: **No warnings this chapter, but please pay attention to TWs at chapter heads going forward__. Please bear with this intro chapter, this fic is going to get weird. _

_Feedback is greatly appreciated :) I L Y for reading!_

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It had been six days. Six days of freedom––days without the Opera, days without her tutor.

Six days without music.

The emptiness of her days maddened her––six long, meaningless days, punctuated by the hounding questions of incessant journalists upon the doorstep of the de Chagny city-house, the changed, watchful eye of M. Giry, and the simpering apologies of her managers. Richard and Moncharmin! Such fools they were, pandering to her Vicomte, with false entreaties for her quick return to the stage.

Worst of all was Raoul. Dear, simple, sweet Raoul; Christine tried to remain patient with him and his well-intentioned protectiveness. His constant assurances concerning her safety aggravated her as much as they had once soothed her––he knew, as she knew, that the rumors of the Phantom's death were false. Now Raoul concocted him in every shadow, as if he laid in wait for his next chance at claiming Christine. How many times had her fiancé drawn his ridiculous pistol to threaten a breeze-shivered curtain, or frozen in speech to demand she stood behind him?

She knew Erik still terrorized Raoul's sleep––the servants whispers told her as much, though he would never admit to such a thing––and often he awoke sweating and gasping for air, with his fingers about his throat, as he cried out to Christine, to his lost brother, and even to that Persian fellow––

But none of this he shared with Christine. She had tried to speak to him about Philippe one morning as they sat together at the breakfast table, but as soon as she'd said his name Raoul had lowered his elbows to the table and carefully placed his silver upon his still-full plate. For a moment he sat, rigid and silent as a statue with his eyes closed––then he passed a palm over his face, stood, and exited the room without another word.

When she saw him again later that morning, he maintained his usual gay manner and behaved as if nothing had transpired at all.

And Christine never mentioned Philippe again.

Now Raoul insisted on accompanying her everywhere she went, forbidding her return to the Opera, and marrying her as soon as possible in the intention of moving her out to Chateau de Chagny in the south. He would hear nothing of her protestations. All of this, he claimed, was done only for her own protection.

Yet Christine knew she needed none. Erik would not seek her now. His final actions toward her, just six days ago, had revealed him. She had chosen him––accepted him––and still he turned her away. Still he set her free. Even Raoul would have nothing to fear from him now. It was Christine who had freed them both, in the end. Erik could never have claimed her love by force––he knew he had no right to demand it––even if a moment of passionate madness, of cruel weakness, had prompted him to try. Returned to himself, humbled by her _sacrifice_, he accepted her choice was hers alone. He had lost all dominion over her. She saw it cast upon the ruin of his face, _his horrible face_––

Six days. Six days of only her own voice in her head. Her own thoughts, turning each moment, each word, each painful glance from those tormented eyes over and over, over and over. Should she have done differently? _Could _she have, that night, as all she had come to know crumbled around her, and so violently?

_How dare he make such demands of her!_ How could he think she would have chosen him, truly chosen him, after such a display?

Oh, he had terrified her! To threaten the murder of hundreds for her unwilling hand––what a mad thing to say! But that was all it was, was it not––a threat. Why should it seem so clear to her that he had no intention of doing as he'd claimed? When surely Raoul had believed it of him, and even the Persian, who spoke so very curiously, as if Erik were his friend…

She could not imagine Erik having any friends.

No––it mattered little. Whatever it was, whatever it had been––in a mad instant, Erik had destroyed it. The veil was lifted, the tower crumbled to nothing––

Because whatever his intention, he still had said the words.

Did she believe him incapable of following through when she had made her choice? Or did she only realize it in the sobriety of six days of unbearable silence? For she had kissed him, then, knowing…

_Oh, God_––she could not think on it––

Phantom, Ghost––it was absurd! No normal man would title themselves thus. And yet, Christine knew, he was no normal man. Could he ever had enthralled her mind, her voice as he did, if he were?

Erik could not be expected to do anything normally. Not even a proposal.

Still his eyes, that night… how they haunted her. How can so much passion be expressed in such ugly, mismatched eyes––such strange, dark things.

Those fascinating eyes––how they burned like black fire behind that mask––

He _must_ have known she would refuse him. He had given her no choice! She could never have let him hurt Raoul in her name––the decision was made as soon as her fiancé stumbled into that sick chamber of mirrors. Surely Erik had seen that! They both knew her final acceptance had been only for Raoul's sake––not Erik's.

But that _kiss_… like a consummation…

Raging and raw it tormented her––the memory of it––she dreamt of that damned kiss and woke writhing in sweat-dampened sheets, in hot shame at the name which hovered upon her parted lips––

The guilty panic that she had tried to shake for nearly a week rose like hot bile in her throat. But she was _safe _now, was she not? She would marry Raoul in two days, on Sunday; she would leave this place and its ghosts––forever––for a good marriage, a Chateau––a title, no less! What more did any woman have the right to desire?

She need not think on Erik again.

She need never hear his voice––

_Why did the thought fill her with such fear? _

Now Raoul glanced at her curiously over the flimsy vellum of _Le Gaulois_. Sensing him, Christine turned from the window to meet his gaze. She curled her mouth in a weak smile and hoped her fiancé did not regard the pink bloom that had heated her cheeks.

"My love," Raoul said, with characteristic ebullience. She wondered if he'd woken screaming last night; no––whether he had or not he would never let it show. He would not speak of it to Christine. This aristocratic mask was so much a part of him that even he did not know how to remove it.

He rolled the large paper in two manicured hands and tossed it casually upon the breakfast table. "Are you quite well? You haven't eaten a thing." Christine glanced at the plates piled high before them of cured meats, soft cheeses and breads, and beautiful, delicately decorated pastry. A display of opulence suited for a Vicomtesse, she thought sardonically, and instantly regretted her ingratitude.

Christine reached across the table to place her palm atop Raoul's.

"It hardly warrants any concern, dear," she said lightly, to the innocent furrowing of Raoul's well-built brow. "I am simply not very hungry this morning." A footman the name of whom Christine could not yet remember shot her a disdainful look as he straightened to remove his proffered tray; she pretended not to regard it.

The servants loved her fiancé, to his credit; they might have loved her too if she could only live up to their expectations of her. Christine could never get used to the lady's maid who dressed and undressed her, and brushed out her long curls each night before bed. How could it be considered rude to dress oneself? Or to open one's own door? With every _faux pas_ Raoul would eye her with a sort of pitiful, kind superiority of which she could not bear. She had never thought of it much before––his high birth––save to think he would never consider her. Now, despite his patience with her, she could not seem to forget that he was a Vicomte.

And the servants were less understanding.

When had independence become an undesirable attribute? Hers was a trait she had cultivated out of necessity; she had long considered it a point of pride…

It occurred to her that Erik must have valued it in her––or at the very least, regarded it––he would leave her alone for days at a time in the underground cottage beside the lake, and never once behaved as if she could not be trusted out of his presence.

_Save for when she'd tried to kill herself to be free of him..._

Now all of this aristocratic convention––it was so exhausting.

She had never appreciated her freedom when she'd had it.

"Ah, still you must eat, my Bride!" said Raoul, with a laugh. Christine managed another tight-lipped smile and sipped her cooling tea; her fiancé pressed on eagerly. "We have much to do today, and you will need all your strength. I should like to have your apartments emptied today, and your things packed away. You will need to oversee, darling, of course––M. Bardin has your cases ready, and he's positively itching––" He shot a suggestive glance in the footman's direction, who gave a pointed nod in reply.

Another private jest that Christine could not understand.

"Oh, but it will not take long, dear," Raoul added, misreading Christine's expression.

Her palm returned to its place in her lap as Raoul rose and moved towards the open window with a surveying rise of his chin––every bit the foppish spectacle in fashionable pastels. Unbidden, her thoughts teased of a taller man in darker clothes, of sensuous, measured movements in contrast to Raoul's stilted boyishness; of long fingers unfurling, torturously slow, so close to her flesh and yet never touching, as they drew her to him under the veil of ecstatic song––_oh, God forgive her_––it was so easy to follow those fingers––

Christine lowered her eyes as a base heat rushed to her ears and parted her lips. She exhaled heavily through her nostrils; Raoul continued, unbothered, "I know it is a burden, dear, but it must be done before the wedding––I should like to be en route to Provence on Monday, and we are expected, besides––you'll stay here at the house, of course, as you have been, until then––so you see, darling, there's no need to keep the place now. It simply must be done today––"

"I do not want to empty my apartment yet, Raoul." Her sudden interruption startled him into a turn. Raoul leaned against the window's decorative molding with his head tilted at the barest angle, watching her. A lock of his yellow hair tumbled across his forehead in boyish mockery of his frown.

"Christine, you are being ridiculous," he said dismissively and ran a flat palm over his crown. "If not today, when? Do you plan to pack on our wedding day?"

"I think––_well!_––I should like to stay there, tonight, Raoul––alone! I should like to stay there until the wedding,_ in fact!_" She stood suddenly in the manner of an emotional outburst, nearly toppling her finely caned Louis XIV chair, but seeing Raoul's furrowed brow and pouting, open mouth, she straightened her skirts and cooly sat down again. This occurred with such unexpected speed that Raoul did not know what to make of it, though the footman arched an obvious eyebrow in her direction.

"Christine?" sighed Raoul, "if you are upset––" He couldn't fathom why his fiancé should desire to return to this place she had never spoken particularly highly of, especially when, if anything, it could only serve as a reminder to her of the horrors of the past several months!

Christine regretted her tantrum as soon as she had made it, and looking upon Raoul's simple, visible anguish, softened her voice to explain that she didn't mean to upset him, she only wished to stay there as she'd been denied a proper farewell what with everything that had befallen them this past week, and besides, they could easily have someone pack the place for them unsupervised before Monday. She never had many belongings there to begin with, and she cared little what became of them. Raoul was not made to feel less uneasy, but in assuring himself that her emotions could be entirely attributed to common, all-too-mysterious 'women's issues'––rather than any serious crisis––he had to accept her wishes. He was never able to resist any whim of her sweet pink mouth. _And in just two days…_ he thought, distracted. _In two short days, she would be his._

So it was settled. For the cost of her two nights of freedom, Christine knew her fiancé would likely have her followed and her flat guarded, by at least one man, if not more. Raoul would be too occupied making arrangements to do so himself, and Christine took comfort in this––the stalking, bumbling presence of his well-meaning cadre was not a great improvement over Raoul's own company these six days, where every moment spent was spent under his worried, watchful eye, but it was something nonetheless. Perhaps Raoul had begun to think of his old rival as gone after all––if he had truly believed her in danger, Christine knew, he would have chained her to his bedpost rather than allow her to sleep out of sight.

She tipped her chin to meet his lips and let him kiss her in farewell, and went away feeling empty and rather cold, and perhaps more confused than ever.

But even on her own, her apartments felt like just another prison. Pacing, Christine turned over small items mindlessly in her fingers as she passed, toppling several unceremoniously to the floor. The silly girlish keepsakes were but trifles now. She made a pot of tea and left it to cool on the table, untouched. The maid, a nervous creature Raoul had sent to see to her, was dispatched just as soon as she'd arrived.

Christine wanted to be alone. And yet, she could find no comfort for her restless mind here––this place was not her home.

She moved like a corpse to the window. When had it begun to rain? The glass offered little protection from the gelid damp, and she felt the chill of it before her palm reached the surface. Tracing her finger over the track of a raindrop, she tipped her forehead forward to rest against the glass. The cold soothed her heated skin, and she sighed.

An unpleasant sensation at her feet roused her. Water from a pool on the little stone balcony had begun to seep beneath the window-frame to soak through her satin slippers; she kicked off her wet shoes with distaste. Barefooted, Christine dragged the dusty linens from her metal frame bed in one great heap and stuffed the soft mass at the base of the window.

She would not need them now.

A comfortable, impossible room rose in her memory. A roaring hearth, and before it two soft leather armchairs beside a rich red velvet settee. Walls lined with tall bookshelves, filled with every volume imaginable, more. A bedroom, with crisp cotton sheets and feather quilts upon an overlarge, mahogany bed, and a private marble bath. Lush brocade curtains over empty, dark windows.

A coffin. No doors…

But in the center of it all, a piano, from which resounded constant music––beautiful, impossible, unbearable music––

And a _man…_

She wanted to go home.

Stepping back into her sodden shoes––her only pair––Christine rushed to the door, and slamming it behind her, flew down the flights of stairs into the pouring dark.

The walk from her apartment to the opera was not a short one, as accommodations at a close distance were for the almost-wealthy, and Christine was not that. _In two days, I will be that and more_––she realized, though the thought did not bring her joy. She might have ordered a carriage had she thought of it in her rush to leave the apartment, but now it was too late, and her shoes, petticoats, and curls had already paid the price.

It was shameful for the wife of a Vicomte to walk about the streets of Paris alone at night, and in the rain no less––but she was no Vicomte's wife yet. Christine knew she was likely being followed by one of her fiancé's men, but if she were they had not so far given themselves away, and she would not allow herself pause to glance about for them. Let them think she was simply a foolish bride-to-be, nervous before her wedding night. By the time they realized where she was headed, it would be too late to stop her.

And Raoul would know too, soon enough. It should have bothered her, Christine knew, and yet she felt no alarm for the knowing.

She fumbled with the little gate key in her palm. It was a strange thing, more comb or lyre than key in shape. She had taken to wearing it always these past several months, on a golden chain tucked against her bosom. It was too heavy, too strange to wear around her neck, but it rested upon her heart all the same.

When Erik had torn Raoul's ring from her throat, thrusting it before her face in his rabid anger, she wanted to rip the thing from her breast and throw it to the ground to spite him. But she was too afraid, and the key remained her secret, bound to her chest even as he cursed her.

She had worn both their rings._ She had worn both their rings!_

Oh, it was a mad thing she was about to do––

Now the opera loomed magnificent and terrible before her––its marble facade threatened Hell even as it reached for Heaven. And from atop it Apollo watched, as God's own tears rained down upon him––

_Changeable child, make up your mind! _

But what choice did she have? She must brave damnation; she must go down below. What kind of life would she have, up here––if she could not know for sure?

His ghost would haunt her until she was dead.

Poor Raoul. Poor Christine! They might have been so happy if not for _him––_

Christine feigned exhaustion beneath the high overhanging stone arch of the last drainage tunnel on the Rue de Rivoli side, as carriages and pedestrians splashed past with blind eyes. To an onlooker, she simply appeared a well-dressed woman, caught without umbrella or escort in a downpour, seeking a moments refuge from the storm.

If only refuge could be found up here.

For six days, her mind had burned with the twisting, twisting, twisting of the Angel's words, as if within that tumult the answers were plain, if she could only find the key. Now beyond the iron bars of the drainage gate, the dark passage called to her, compelled her to it. It sang in the vibration of her veins, in the constant hammering of her aching skull, as if all the answers were right there, just beyond her reach. Still, she was powerless against the Angel's summons.

Had she ever been able to resist?

She must see him one more time. She had to understand––

And the Angel always knew just what to do.

A small commotion in the intersection of the Rue Auber, some shouting and whinnying of wet horses, provided cover enough––the golden key found its mark.

Christine ran down the dark passageway as the gate's locking behind her echoed like funeral bells in her ears…

_There could be no going back._


	2. Chapter 2

_**La Nuit Porte Conseil**_

_Chapter Two_

_Feedback is always appreciated :)_

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The boat waited as always––a lone sentinel on the stony shore of the underground lake. As soon as she stepped inside it began to move, coaxed silently along the inky waters by its submerged chain. When Erik took the boat with her, he would use a gondolier's oar to project them forward. Though the oar lay in the bottom of the boat, she dare not stand to try to use it should she topple over into the black water. Erik warned her to be wary of the water––she never asked why. There was much she never asked.

Now she fingered the handle of the oar where his gloved hand would have grasped, as she waited for the boat to make its slow, tortuous crossing. To her left passed its twin, the empty counterweight.

Erik would know she was coming.

She had memorized this journey like any familiar path. By now the far shore should come into view––softly illuminated by the dim glow of Erik's candles, his lamps, his hearth––and yet, there was nothing. Only pure, black, nothing. An uncanny dread crept under Christine's skin and beneath her ribs to chill her heart. _She should be able to see his home by now_. In her haste, she had not stopped to light a lantern or candle, blindly trusting her steps and the little boat to guide her here, trusting Erik to light her way. She had never been here in the dark.

She had never been anywhere so truly dark before.

Without warning the spectral boat struck the bank as Christine cried out in alarm. Her ears filled with the terrible crush of her own pulse. A tremulous hand flew to her heart to settle her pounding blood.

"Erik?" she called, swallowing. Black water licked softly at the unseen bank; a taint of moldering damp soured the gelid air.

There was no answer save her own thunderous breath.

_He would have known she was coming!_

The little boat lurched beneath her as she crawled from it, grasping at the algae-covered stones of the underground strand. On her knees she stumbled forward blindly; if she could only find the wall of his house, she could reach his door. Cold sweat beaded upon her chest and slid between her breasts.

Catching an arm upon an unseen stone she shrieked in pain, then gave a sob for something else. She crumpled forward miserably.

Then_––a sound_––ragged and raw, like a last miserable breath before death––

Christine stirred, staring into the haunted dark.

Her knees scraped the coarse stone as she crawled, spoiling her heavy skirts and battering her palms. Gasping in pain and fear, she stood, and thrust her hands forward to grope for the wall.

"_Erik?_" she breathed, to every resounding drip of water on black stone, every crashing ripple of the black lake upon the parapet.

She knew the way to his door; it was not far, but darkness invents great distances where there are none. Grasping the wall of the cavernous room with aching fingers, she tested the crags and crevices of its frigid surface until she found the hidden switch––the stony trigger that gave ingress to Erik's home. Exhausted, as her chest heaved with each ragged breath, Christine threw herself through the entrance.

Again she cried out to him as her frantic heart pounded; she had been so sure she would find him here. Waiting for her, with a comforting fire blazing––then––he would reach out a magnetic arm and draw her to that enticing warmth, to him––and sing, and stroke her hair so, so cautiously as she sat attentive at his feet––oh––and everything would again be so simple––_the Angel would tell her what to do_––

Now her timorous breath echoed in endless darkness. The penetrating damp crept beneath her wet clothes like rimy fingers and she shuddered, wrapping her arms about herself.

_He has forsaken this place, and you._

_He is gone._

_This is your own doing._

Christine stumbled blindly over something that she knew should not have been in her path and fell with a startled cry. Her probing hands found the graceful leather arm and plush seat of one of his handsome armchairs, toppled on its back. With careful hands she righted it, then dropped to her bruised knees, despairing.

A desperate panic rose in her throat like hot bile. The fearless determination she had clung to just minutes ago was crumbling––_he could not have abandoned her_––

She called his name, screamed it until her voice was ragged and her breath caught painfully in her raw throat.

Then, surrendering, she collapsed upon her hands among a disordered mass of scattered papers and trinkets. Recognizing their familiar shapes in her searching fingers began her torment anew, and folding, she sobbed openly in the absolute dark.

The click of the lamp lighting, like thunder in the suffocating silence of the room, strangled Christine's sharp intake of breath.

"Hush, Christine," said Erik dispassionately, "you will damage your throat with all that screeching."

The ecstasy of relief flooded her, and with it, mortifying shame. Illuminated in the flickering orange glow of the lantern, Erik eyed her carefully. He kneeled at her side, his narrow back arching just slightly to hold the lantern above her prone form. His other arm hung stiffly at his side, the long fingers splayed and taut as if reaching—

Why did he hesitate?

She had longed for his––_what?_––only moments before. Had he not desired the same? Now she blistered beneath the humiliating coolness of his stare.

Christine fought to regain her composure. She squared her chin and glared up at his indifferent mask. Tear tracks shone in the lantern light on her reddened cheeks. "I see you are as hateful as you ever have been," she said haughtily, intending to wound, though she regretted the words as soon as she had uttered them. Erik drew back the lantern, straightening.

"_Christine,_" he started, though his eyes narrowed dangerously behind the mask.

"How long would you have me call for you?" she demanded, with vitriol that surprised them both. "Does it please you, _still,_" she spat, "to watch me suffer?"

"Suffer, Mademoiselle?" echoed Erik bitterly. His voice shed its canorous allure; now he spoke in a cruel, even growl. "My dear, you know nothing of it." The lantern clattered to the floor between them, nearly toppling as he rose gracefully to his full height, to be cloaked in shadow once more. Christine lunged for the lamp in time to right it, gasping in fear of the darkness.

Her skirts rustled as she stood and rounded on him furiously. "Erik! How could you! I called for you, _I needed you!_" she wailed, unable to stop herself. Now her mind flooded with the remembered barbarousness of his affections––the offenses she had allowed herself so easily to forget––

_Once––she had nearly killed herself to be rid of him––_

_Why had she done that?_

Christine gripped her skirts to fling them roughly out of the way of the lantern sputtering on the floor between them. Erik stood rigid as she circled him, challenging his pursuing glare.

"Why do you mock me?" she said, advancing. "I owe you nothing, now! I have come––alone, Erik––did you think I would bring the mob for you? That I would bring Raoul? I have come to see you! _Alone, _Erik––_alone!_ You will not shun me!"

He waited, silently raging. The heat of his body was palpable in the cold room.

"Speak to me, Erik!" she demanded. "Spare me your games––I am not your puppet, anymore!––I am not your toy!"

"Surely you are not," he said darkly. She quieted.

He considered her––her eburnean flesh, reddening at her cheeks and upon the fleshy tops of her breasts that fought their silken prison with each impassioned word. A curl, sable in the darkness, trailed from its pins to tantalize her throat––_oh, but he could be that curl–_–

_She is here_; a part of him whispered, as her eyes bore into his in accusation. _Beg her forgiveness._

_She calls, and you come. __You are a fool to think it is you she wants. __You cannot deny her––she knows it._

_The whore uses her flesh to ensnare us, as she always has._

_She is not here for you._

The darkness always won.

Now his misshapen lips twisted luridly, baring his teeth. "Perhaps I am not always there when you need me, Christine. I do not wait for you here, like a child upon his mother's teat! Go home to your Vicomte!"

The response derailed her, dissolving her false composure. Now she stood nervelessly as her voice broke, a hand clawing the heated flesh beneath her throat.

"How can you say such things to me now?" she breathed. "Are your feelings so changed, so soon…" She faltered, catching the rancorous black stare behind the mask. "Erik, please–– I have risked _everything_ to be here! Raoul will know I've come, I cannot pretend otherwise! I am abandoned! _I was to be married in two days!"_

"_Was, Christine?_ So you will not marry _him_ now?" he said silkily. "Am I your second choice?"

She cried out as he clasped her arm suddenly in a piercing grip and wrenched her to him, his face close to hers. "What makes you think _I_ still want you!" he spat, and released her just as violently.

Eyes wide, she blanched and recoiled, but something barred her path and she stumbled; a slip of her foot upended the lantern with an unnoticed clatter, returning them to darkness.

"Stupid child!––_he was the better option!_" He seethed above her.

She had fallen at his feet. He made no move to help her.

"_Wait_––" she whispered.

Darkness has a tendency to illuminate.

Her heart pounded. Her breath poured from her lungs in a ragged pant. A crazed desperation roiled within, that familiar dizzying heat, that same panic that chewed beneath her flesh upon the black shore.

Erik was close––she sensed him still, his body electric even in the dark. She slid her hand over cold stone, seeking anything––

"Please––Erik," she breathed. "_Angel_––please––do not leave me––"

He had stepped back as he'd thrown her from him, but he would not have left her. For all he had tried to abandon Christine to the dark––to what purpose? Revenge? Justice? _Her own good?_ It mattered little––he could not take her pain. He would not be the cause of it... not anymore.

_Not again. _

She had cried, and so he had turned on the light.

Now he waited, silently hating and hurting in turns.

On her knees she implored him, reaching out blindly with searching palms. Her probing fingers found the hems of his trousers and he stiffened in surprise.

"Say something––_Angel, I am frightened of the dark_––please," she breathed, the manic pitch returning. She grasped at the fabric with both palms, gathering it in desperate fists.

Any response he might have made died on his lips. He exhaled, loudly––rooted to the ground, he could not move, even as Christine dragged herself bodily to him. The temerous pressure of her, of her open legs coiled about his ankles, her skirts heavy upon his nerveless feet––

_The girl was mad!_

In the hermetic darkness, his senses awakened as others' could not. They crowded his faculties to overwhelm him in awareness of Christine. Every beseeching graze of her fingertips upon his ankles became a staggering blow. Her quiet, shallow breaths thundered in his ears; every fragile murmur in her throat, each wordless vibration rang out clear and rich in sound. The familiar heat of her, so tortuously close to him, burned hotter than any fire. The moisture of her pleading breath prickled beneath his clothes.

She would not release him, his presence her only constant in the forbidding dark. He was the palladium she was bound to. Discretion had no home here.

_He must not leave her in the dark._

Her fervid palms seized his legs under the knee with long, grasping strokes. She handled the fabric in supplicant fingers, twisting and mangling it as her possessive arms encircled him.

"Say something––" she repeated, and he felt her blind gaze seek his as her fingers padded his clothes.

Erik stood, electrified, unmoving, as Christine pressed a kiss to the hem of his trousers.

_He should stop this––_

"_Angel,_" she murmured reverently, exalting the word upon the fabric. He imagined her full lips, red and moist, as they parted at his feet––

_No––no more––not again, Christine––_

A cold chill roiled over his shoulders and upon his scalp, building deep in the pit of him.

"Have you returned only to vex me?" he managed hatefully, though his halting words betrayed something else.

"_Angel,_" she implored him. Her hot palm slid behind his knee; he buckled, then tensed––

"You are a trifling girl, Christine… a tease…" he exhaled, "––you do things that you cannot grasp the consequence of––"

"Forgive me," she begged, and pressed her cheek to his leg in prayer, dragging her red flesh over the consecrating wool of his trouser.

Erik strangled an animal groan as her hands slid heavily up his thighs to grip the ends of his jacket at his waist; Christine pulled herself to her knees by the fabric. The weight of her forced him forward, exhaling, but he straightened and bore her as her unseen fingers twisted and worked the wool at his sides. Her skirts rustled as she shuffled forward on her knees, weaving her legs between his.

"You tempt me…" he said wearily, as she hung from him. "You scorn me…"

"Do not hate me," she whispered, her face upturned, her blind stare wide-eyed.

Leaden hands dragged over his hips and his breath caught in his throat; he felt her eyes, staring into nothing, burning under his skin.

Then, locating her target she grasped his wrists at his sides, digging her nails into the paper flesh. His hands yielded to her capturing fingers; bringing them together at his front she turned the holy palms to her face––her ragged breath moistened his skin––and pressed her cheek to the calloused flesh.

As his obedient fingers curled about her chin the flat of his hand brushed his riotous groin, heated and rigid beneath his clothes.

_Could she know? _he wondered. _Did she understand?_

Christine pressed a rapturous kiss, another, in his pliant hands. Her open mouth traced the lines of his palm, her lip dragging over the skin, as she entangled her fingers silkily with his.

So like a moan, her salvific repetition of his name upon his flesh––

"Christine…" he breathed, in ragged surrender, "you cannot know how I have ached for you…"

Erik could do it; it would be so easy, to take her now, helpless and terrified in the dark…

_Erik could make it so she need not resist._

Their panting breaths echoed in the thunderous silence. Christine hung obscenely at his waist, her worshipping lips buried in his hands. She was waiting for something, he knew. He could feel her there, the torturous heat of her, her trembling fingers, her open, pleading mouth––

_Touch her! _Erik screamed, and the scream filled every part of himself, filled the unfeeling black void that enshrouded them both.

_Take her! _

But his fingers curled into trembling vises upon his trousers as his chest heaved, and he said nothing, did nothing.

She was asking, begging––_but not for that_.

_Never for that._

Then, shaking, he tore himself from her grasp, and knowing his way in the darkness he turned and swept from her.


	3. Chapter 3

_**La Nuit Porte Conseil**_

_Chapter Three_

* * *

"Erik?" gasped Christine, as she realized he had gone and her fingers worked dementedly in the empty air. _"Erik!"_

The bliss of surrender dissolved as her blind panic returned, creeping and nauseating in her dry throat––_it was too dark, much too dark to be alone_––

Then in the black nothing she heard a swish of movement followed by a familiar series of metallic clicks; the sound pounded and shattered in her night-sharpened ears. Behind her, the gas fireplace rushed suddenly to life; startled, she spun to face it. Erik stood with his back to her at the mantle, the silhouette of his shoulders hard and imposing as he stared into the blaze. Christine could not see his hands, but knew his long fingers worked with the little brass dials that controlled the gas flow to the hearth.

In the sudden brilliance of the fire, the Louis-Philippe room took shape around her, and yet it was not the comfortable shelter of her memories. Erik's fine furniture lay toppled far from its places as if thrown, as his drapes crumpled in red heaps upon the stone floor. The piano bench splintered about the base of an empty bookshelf, surrounded by fallen books with gaping, paper mouths. Even the coffin––_his bed_––twisted from its elegant pedestal to the floor.

And his music… all around, covering every inch of the half-shadowed living room, were strewn sheets and rolls of his music, his manuscripts, his notes––these pieces of Erik, discarded and destroyed.

On her knees Christine gathered the scattered papers nearest her in reverent hands and lifted them delicately in Erik's direction. "Erik, what happened––"

"What are you doing here, Christine?" he said acidly.

She had no answer to give. Her still-feverish cheeks burned.

"My wedding is in two days––"

"I know."

Christine stood and placed the precious papers carefully on the seat of the leather chair she had righted. Her knees smarted; she wanted to rub the sore flesh, to sit, but shame prevented her. What must Erik think of her now, screaming his name in the dark, begging before him upon her knees?

Who was this woman he had made of her? Christine could not recognize herself.

Her gaze swept the wreckage of Erik's belongings. "This was your doing," she said.

"Yes."

"Just now?"

"Six days ago."

"Oh," she breathed, understanding. "But this is your home…"

"It is no home for me now, Christine."

The edges of him blurred in the orange half-light before the hearth; Christine could not tell where darkness ended and Erik began.

Now she moved towards him over the scattered remains of his things. With each step, Christine lifted her sodden skirts above her white ankles; Erik turned and studied her movements intently. When their eyes met, she flushed and shivered visibly. His dark stare narrowed.

"I am leaving Paris, Christine," he said, after a pause. The huskiness of something unsaid flavored his words; Christine could feel the weight of it.

She remembered stories he would tell her, mere sketches so vague, so lacking in detail she almost couldn't trust that they were true, if not for their strange, alluring teller. He spoke of exotic travels, time spent in the Orient, in Italy, in Russia, as she knelt at his feet like a child. How she ached to hear them told again.

Truly he could have told her anything, then, and she would have believed him without question. She would have followed that voice anywhere.

_Once, he had said he was an Angel––_

Now she looked upon him, in his halo of fire, with thinly veiled anguish_. Do not go_, she wanted to shout. _Stay._ But her gutless tongue would not form the words. _What will I do, without you?_

Instead, she breathed: "Where will you go?"

Erik gave a lingering sigh and stretched his long fingers reflectively upon the warm stone mantle. Then, as if he would rather speak of anything else, he said, "Away, Christine…. anywhere. I do not yet know."

"So you will not leave for some time?" she asked, and the words felt dry in her throat.

"I will go in two days," he admitted.

Christine understood why.

They stood together, facing the hearth in pregnant silence.

"Christine," Erik sighed, finally, "how can you come here willingly? After what I…" He swallowed the words; he chewed his ruined lips. Still she read the plaintive tilt of his jaw, the pleading curl of his lip easily enough.

He could not speak of it. What could he say? _I still want the Vicomte dead. I am jealous of how you love him––how easily he has won you. I was mad with lust for you, so mad I forgot my love, my humanity––_no––of _that _I can claim none.

_I am sorry for behaving like the monster you know I am._

Christine frowned at his side, watching him. He met her stare with a pained expression. "Christine," he continued, "you should run from me––why do you return?"

She blushed hotly, recalling her earlier desperation and her imprudent behavior with it. _What more could be said, after that?_

"I cannot hate you, Erik," she said simply, lowering her eyes.

"Then you are a fool," he hissed, and turned away. She bristled, but persisted. His black moods were common to her now; she would not fear them.

"Do not misunderstand me," Christine began, her voice firm. "You behaved horribly towards me, and towards Raoul," ––she might have caught his head bowing just slightly in concession, though he prickled visibly at the mention of the Vicomte––"but I have not always treated you kindly, either, Erik––

"I have been so bewildered; I can see that now––please––forgive me for my weakness, for the pain I have brought upon you. Erik...I know you are sorry too."

His sorrow pained her as if her own; she ached to soothe him but did not know how.

_Foolish girl_––_she had never known how._

"I know you, Erik––you would never have behaved so if you felt you had any other choice. You are a good man, for all your efforts to prove otherwise."

He considered her. Like two moons at deepest midnight his secret eyes bore into hers; then they narrowed.

"A good man!" he echoed with a snort. His expression darkened. Christine's breath caught in her throat.

"Erik––" she started.

"No, Christine, I am a devil," he growled, rounding on her. "You give your trust too freely, child! It has been your downfall, and mine. Do not forgive me so easily! I cannot forgive myself! You did not know my mind, that night––_every night––_what I was prepared to do to you, Christine––to force you into––_do not think I wouldn't have!"_

Her fingers flew unwitting to her throat as she recoiled from his plain threat.

She had known it, of course––what he must have intended that night._ The wedding night._ In truth she had surrendered herself to it long before. She had expected it, waited for it. There had never been much time to consider whether she wanted it––as soon as the Angel revealed himself to her as a man, she had known he would expect her. It would have been naive to think anything otherwise.

Certainly she would have resisted––propriety forbid it; _she could not have given herself willingly!_––but she knew she could not have refused him.

She understood the transaction she had entered into.

Still, it had frightened her. It would have frightened her with any man, she was sure. It was true she was nervous about receiving Raoul, as her husband, in only two days…

And sex alone was not love, surely. But Erik's was not a simple desire, a basic lust––was it love?––no––no––it was something else, something unfathomable. To surrender to his burning mania for her and feel that grotesque flesh upon her flesh––to submit to him, entirely, willingly––_t__o lose herself completely to the Angel––_

_What would it be like?_

She shivered.

And there had been moments, half-remembered, really––_it was so hard to understand anything at all underground_––but she had thought, maybe––_no, it was nothing at all_––

The Angel had never demanded his payment.

_Why should it vex her so that he had not?_

Erik made no notice of her flushing cheeks or the trembling fingers that clutched unconsciously at her waist; he continued in his muttering repentance, staring at his shifting feet. "I am not a good man, Christine. I have done things––_he_ has––no, I cannot be trusted with you. You must stay away from me––"

Her thoughts threw a tremor into her words that sounded shrill in her ears, but she could not prevent it. "And if I do not want to stay away? Erik––do I have no choice in this?" she said. The frankness of her sentiment terrified her but the fear of losing him––now, right now––was greater. She would not feel as she had in the dark again. She could not face that emptiness, that terrifying silence without his voice––without his music–– to still her mind.

For what was life without it? That voice, his heavenly voice, the Angel's voice! That canorous curse from which she could not escape––she was bound to it the moment the first notes surrounded her, nearly a year ago, flowing from the walls like God's own language in her dressing-room. Could it really have been such a short time ago that he had come to her? She felt as though she had heard the Voice inside for her whole life. It was her oldest friend, her lover, her father, her God––that sublime voice––she was its prisoner!

And Erik, its master––

Erik was the Angel…

_Erik was just a man._

Her palms found his chest. His feral gaze flew to the source of the assault and he groaned weakly as she crushed his shirtfront in frantic fingers.

_It frightens all women, does it not?_

Christine brought her face close to his. "Do you think me such a child?" she demanded, as her nails dug into his flesh. "I knew what you desired of me, Erik! I have always known!"

"Oh!" She cried out suddenly as if stung by her own words. Her words came ragged, her eyes widened––as she understood the indisputable truth she spoke––

"_What if I welcomed it?_"

Erik drew back in surprise, frowning. "You know not what you say, Christine. You would not say so much if you knew my mind."

Her hands fell limp to her sides. Her heart beat wildly in her chest; its suffocating rhythm dominated all reasoning. "_But you must stay!_" she cried, disarmed. Then she thrust her jaw forward and squared herself before him, as if to dare his rejection.

"_Why, _Christine? To play the doting father, when your husband casts you out in a lover's spat?" he said dryly. Now his expression darkened; his tone whispered like silk as Christine writhed where she stood into its caress––

"Or, perhaps, my dear…when you are a bored Vicomtesse and bold with experience, and you seek the compliments of your old Master?"

For a long, breathless moment Erik considered Christine. His hesitation crackled like the tempest that builds in the late-summer heat, the prophetic stillness before the storm. Christine could sense the warning pressure of it; her breath caught in her throat.

Suddenly he dragged a curious finger along the trembling lower lip of her open mouth; her lip parted incautiously in response to his touch as her hot tongue brushed his skin.

She heard his ragged exhale as flesh met sensitive flesh. Her eyes closed––

But he released her, his finger curling into the white palm as it was drawn away. The hard angles of his face turned to stone.

"_It was never enough for Erik._"


	4. Chapter 4

_**La Nuit Porte Conseil**_

_Chapter Four_

_**A/N:** mild violence, suggested violence & abusive language_

_Feedback is always appreciated :)_

* * *

Her skin prickled where Erik had touched her. Christine licked the lip; she dragged it between her front teeth. She stamped a childish foot in shamed frustration. "Do not tease me!" she complained, though her resolve was crumbling, "I am not false! Erik––I want you to stay!"

"_You do not!"_ he shouted, his manner electric. Now Christine shrunk; her obstinate shoulders sagged in defeat. Her fingers worked at the silk of her skirts, wringing and twisting the fabric.

With a sigh Erik softened; he arranged his face with a crudely attempted serenity that quickly faded.

"Oh––I love you far too much, Christine––_don't blush!_––you know it! But I will be your ruin, one way or another. I have done nothing but hurt you, in more ways than you realize. You cannot understand, you are too good! I have never been honest with you, never!

"Please, Christine––I beg it of you––please––spare me your courtesy now! I cannot bear it! If you only understood how false I have been!"

He grasped her wrists, suddenly, wrenching her numb hands upwards as she cried out with the shock of it. Then, just as abruptly, he released her; he strangled an animal groan as he threw her from him. He flexed his empty palms uselessly in the air between them. Then he curled slow fists of the dangerous fingers and returned the rigid arms to his sides, as his breath shuddered from his hammering chest.

"_Erik, why?_" Christine gasped, stung. Her wrists smarted where he had caromed them; absently she stroked the injured flesh. "Why must you regard yourself so? You are no villain to me, but an Angel––"

"I am no Angel, Christine," he growled.

Her hands moved of their own volition to his shoulders, as they wavered under his thinly-repressed rage. She smoothed the palms over his jacket and grasped his silk lapels to draw him to her. On pointed toes, she brought her face to his, her eyes searching. He would not meet her gaze.

Christine squared her jaw. "Are you so blind?" she challenged, as she hung from the fine fabric. She crushed herself to him fleshly, lacing her legs with his; he stumbled back upon the mantle.

Now his feral eyes met hers, ablaze. He set his jaw, gnashing the teeth together––Christine saw the muscles working in his cheek down to his straining throat, in the corded tendons that danced upon the sharp angles of his face.

She did not notice his shaking palms as they traced the row of little buttons down her back––that they mimed, unwitting, the carnal shedding of her gown.

"I am here, Erik!" she breathed. "_I am here!_ Despite your cruelty and your warnings. Can you not see I have chosen you?"

"Then you have chosen poorly!" he roared. With a convulsive movement he broke from her grasp. Christine stared at him, wide-eyed, but did not retreat.

Like a beast stalking in a cage, Erik shifted rapidly where he stood. His dark eyes darted about, then fixed upon her dangerously––Christine had him pinned to the mantle; he could not free himself without touching her.

Surely he could throw her from him easily, his ferine mind offered.

_But if he dared to touch her now––_no––no––not again––

His rabid gaze devoured her, fiendish upon her white, pulsating throat, her full, heaving breast, her confused, pouting lips––_oh, the stupid child was begging him to stay!_––

He tormented himself with sketches of her––unspeakable images––yes––he could lift her, just like that––push her to the wall––

_And cover her mouth, _he suggested. _Hold her arms. Force her to her knees. Open her legs_––no––no––no––

_Hush. How else could you have her alive? Choke her, but if she still won't stop screaming, kill her––then have her corpse._

Erik groaned, a terrible wordless sound, and gripping her shoulders, thrust her from him. His stare distorted into a look of malevolent hate; Christine balked and brought a defensive hand to her lips.

"Go home, Christine!" he hissed. "_I release you! _Return to the boy and have your pretty wedding. Wear your white dress! _And tremble on your wedding-night for him!_"

His nostrils flared, his fearsome eyes black fires behind the mask.

"Erik––" she started.

"Oh––" he groaned miserably and twisted from beneath her nervous fingers to crush himself in smothering arms. "Can you not see, Christine? I am a monster! A demon! _Look!_––can't you see him now? There is something broken in me that cannot be repaired!"

"Erik, your face––"

Again her hand rose to brush his cheek, but he seized it and clasped it fiercely between them.

"Ah––but is not my face, dear, virtuous Christine," he said darkly. His blistering gaze lingered on her caught fingers; he squeezed them with a crazed eagerness, kneading the bloodless flesh of her palm. Christine watched his manipulation as if in a trance.

Then he threw her from him.

"_No––_" he breathed, staring at her stunned hand, outstretched and frozen between them. Abruptly he thumped his fist upon his leather forehead as Christine let out a shocked gasp.

He met her wide-eyed gaze and repeated the gesture.

"My thoughts, Christine! My thoughts!_ Erik's!_ You are not safe with me!_"_

An agonized moan poured from his lips. His hands tore at his scalp as he buckled over––when he rose he thrust a violent arm across the mantle, scattering the candlesticks and trinkets upon it. "_Why do you return?" _he roared. "Foolish girl––stupid Christine!––can you not realize I was going to kill you? Or something near enough to death––_my God, you'd wish you were dead, I'm sure you would prefer it––_" He shot her a look of absolute misery as he steadied himself upon the millwork with both hands, panting––a moment––then his crushing fist struck out suddenly to pound the hearth. "I try, by the Devil I do try, but Christine! I want something from you I have no right to desire, and you must never give!"

Chest heaving dangerously, Erik clutched at the mantle. Blood showed across the white knuckles of his long fingers.

His animal gaze sought Christine.

"_Do you know I think on it?_" he growled, rounding on her. She could sense the tension in him; it shuddered in the still darkness like heat about a flame. The predatory slant of his shoulders frightened her; she faltered as he advanced. "I am thinking on it now, Christine––just seeing you here, before me. I am mad with it! I've tried to resisted you––_little temptress!_––I have, so many times, so often you would be disgusted to know––_you would find me more revolting than you already do, my love_––

"But you kissed me! You kissed Erik, Christine––_dear, sweet, pink, Christine––_and I sent you away, because this demon still wants more! _Erik,_ Christine! I sent you away! _In your damned innocence you return!_ Do you trust that I love you well enough not to hurt you?

"No––" he added, considering, "you have seen the monster. You know what _he_ is like––"

He had turned her about insensibly as she shrunk from him. Now her fingers spread defensively upon the warming stones of the hearth as he pinned her to it; her slippers skittered over the brick at their feet. A foreboding heat licked at her ankles––_the fire_––

_If he advanced any further, surely she would burst aflame!_

Erik studied her, his black eyes threatening, as Christine's breath came ragged and weak between her parted lips. He curled his long frame over hers to press his face close; the black mask loomed just before her eyes, so close she could not focus upon it––_God protect her_––so close it was only fearsome black that she could see––

"Do I frighten you, Christine?" Erik breathed, hot upon her skin.

"No," she tried, but her trembling voice betrayed her.

"I should._"_

The frenzied veins pulsed in her narrow throat; his hands found the mantle at either side of it, caressing slow circles upon the stone with the pads of his thumbs. At his almost-touch, Christine gave an unconscious whine, an anxious little moan, and chewed her lip; she shut her eyes and reflexively crushed her cheek to the mantle.

Erik exhaled roughly out his nose as Christine shied from him.

She wondered if he intended to kiss her or strangle her. Perhaps he did not know.

Because had there not been other times––_no, the Angel loved her very much_––

When she opened her eyes and turned her face to his, his head had already sagged between them. His menacing shoulders went limp. His bloodied fingers slid from the mantle to cradle his face.

"Oh––_little whore!_ Why must you tempt me still?" he groaned, absently clawing at the mask. "I sent you away! Why do you not fear me, as you should? Save yourself from me––I am a poison to you––" Folding suddenly, he collapsed upon the mantle at her side. "I will lose control again, I know it. I swear it!"

Again Erik turned to her, his eyes wild in the cavernous sockets. "Just let me go, Christine, for your sake and mine! Spare me this hell, if you have ever pitied me––_oh, you do not want to know––_just go, just go_––Christine––_

"_Go!_" he bellowed, and thrust his forehead upon the stone.

Christine screamed. Her hands flew to seize his face.

"_Oh!_" she cried, overcome. She cradled his head in her palms, her frantic gaze dancing over the unyielding leather, his too-pale flesh.

Her thumb traced his brow haltingly to brush over the mask. _No blood––_

"Are you hurt?" she whispered, bringing her face close to his.

"I have suffered for you so, but it is nothing…" he muttered, meeting her stare with a sluggish drooping of his lids. He looked away. "I deserve it all and more."

A pause, as Erik caught his heaving breath. Like a statue he pressed his eyes closed as Christine padded attentively at his lowered face. She was grateful for the regular task––the blessed distraction of it––in this deluge she clung to it as a raft in a flood. The pounding of her heart had reached an unhealthy threshold; she could not think for its relentless hammering––oh, God, it threatened to burst from within her tremulous chest! _No_––she must not remove his mask––_she dare not!_––she preferred not to imagine how badly that could go with Erik in this sort of state––surely he would kill her outright!––but still she squinted uselessly about its edges, trying to get a sense of the wasted flesh beneath.

Erik broke from her treatment and straightened to his full height, marooning her stunned fingers in his wake. He glared down at her as her open hands worked the air, his expression unreadable. "Christine," he said coldly, "do you understand? I did not just want a bride. I do not––Erik would have imprisoned you, ravished you. Raped you, Christine. _Do you understand? _It was my intention, I cannot deny it. God, I may still, if you do not go––

"Innocent child, _fool Christine! _Did you never wonder why I made you lock your door? You cannot know how close you have come to your ruin!"

As if in afterthought, he hissed, "_if Erik has not ruined you already!_"

"Oh, Angel––" she managed, though the words came in a timorous exhale. She fell silent, considering him, as he glared. Her heart beat feverishly in her chest; she was tempted to laugh, if only to expend this maddening nervous energy, but she knew he might strike her if she did.

With an effort she steadied her voice. "But you never did such things! Such things you say––" Again, she had to strangle the manic laughter that threatened her speech, "_Look––_I am whole, I am fine! You do not harm me! And this…well––very well. You never did such things besides. Why suffer for the thought? There is no sin in thinking, my Angel!

"_Oh_––madness is cousin to genius, and you are both in turns. I do not fear you. _See!_ I trust you. _Here I am_––I forgive you!"

He had turned away, unable to face her. In a tone like solid ice, he said, "Relieve me of your faith in me, Christine. I do not deserve your pity, however honorably offered. Would you still say such pretty things if I'd had you instead of kissed you––if I'd had you as you slept so sweetly in your little bed?

_"Would you say it if I had you now?"_

Christine's heart beat so feverishly in her throat it surprised her that it formed words at all.

"This is what torments you?" she said sadly. "What has life brought upon you to think you must harm me even when you yourself do not wish it? You have been my friend, my teacher––my––my God, I do not have the words––Erik! _Angel!_ Do not make me say it! _How can you be so blind?_"

"Please, stop, sweet girl––I have been so false to you––"

She sought his gaze but he refused it, glancing away even as her eyes followed him. She frowned. "Erik––_please, look at me_––do you think I martyr myself in fear of you? That I lie to protect myself from some imagined terror?" At this he snorted bitterly, as he glared again into the fire, and Christine thought she had the truth of it.

"…not imagined, Christine," he muttered.

The breath caught in her throat and she gave a choking cough somewhere between a laugh and a sob. "Dear Angel! Your mind is as cruel as it is brilliant. I know you love me––you would not hurt me, Erik. You could not."

"Poor child, you do not know what I am capable of."

"Perhaps not," she said measuredly, "but… no, dear Erik, in your stubbornness you do not hear me––you see only what you fear––you ignore that which is true!" Again the pounding heat clouded her ears, driving out all else––she inhaled, deeply, with closed eyes, then fixed her impassioned stare to his. "God in Heaven, Erik, if it is a sin––_oh, it is, I know it––forgive me!_––but Angel, you must hear it––_you cannot injure me thus if I would desire every injury!_"

His black gaze sought hers, urgently, his question etched in every rigid muscle of his face.

Now, he did not pull away when her determined hand found his cheek.

"_Listen_––you have already claimed me! For I cannot exist without you. I am a shade upon the Earth above––down here below, this is my home!"

She was no longer afraid. She understood.

_She was mad with it too._

"Angel," she breathed, "I knew not my own mind, I could not see you! But now you are revealed to me. Whatever your crimes, Erik, I forgive you! I would not have another! Give me your ring again, I would wear it!" Frantic fingers sought his nerveless hand, groping for the plain gold band he still wore––her ring. She tore it from his finger, challenging his astonished gaze, and thrust it upon her own.

"––_you mustn't, Christine––"_ he warned.

But pressing the hand before his eyes, she cried, "_I am your wife, Erik, living or dead!_ I am yours, as long as I live on this earth, and then I am yours in death!"

Her breath heaved from her lungs, her crazed lips trembling. The blood boiled beneath her flesh, every part of her aflame––

"If my body is my payment, I pay it gladly! _Take me!_ I give myself completely in exchange for you––_you shall not send me away again!_"

A panting silence fell.

They did not speak, save for their eyes: searching, pleading, desperate.

"_Christine––_" he breathed, a question he could not ask. A warning. A prayer.

"Erik––I love you," she promised, as if she had said it a thousand times before. "I want you as you want me. Do not doubt me. I will not take it back."

For a moment more he stared at her, as a thousand emotions flashed upon that face––

Then their lips crashed together, urgent, furious. In the half-blind dark, they tasted each other, with tongues, with sighs, with teeth, as if each were determined to swallow the other. Christine wound her fingers in his hair to crush his mouth to hers. His hot palms charted the curves of her under her cloak; with a heated violence that earned an eager moan from Christine, Erik tore the sodden garment from her to drag his hands heavily over her hips, her waist, her breasts––

Atop the flowing mass of her skirts Erik dug his fingers into the soft flesh beneath her thigh to grip her body to his; her leg wrapped about his hip as she braced herself against him. Senseless, they were falling––now Erik had her pressed to the warm stones of the hearth, her arms wrapped about him, her lips crushed to his––

Christine groaned into his open mouth as the urgent tension of his erection pressed between her thighs. He could sense the heat of her even above her clothes; mindlessly he ground himself into the magnetic fire. Christine opened her eyes and met his wide stare; with a whine, she writhed within his grasp and angled her leg such that he could feel the plump softness of her sex upon his.

Then with a convulsive movement, as if he had been torn from her by another force entirely, Erik released her.

They stood apart in the orphic glow of the gas-fire, to the panting echo of their ragged breaths in the surrounding dark.

"Your clothes are wet," he said stupidly.

"It was raining."

A pause.

"I do not deserve this, Christine––you don't understand––"

In answer, she grasped his face in her two hands and pulled his lips to hers.


	5. Chapter 5

_**La Nuit Porte Conseil**_

_Chapter Five_

_**A/N: Warnings for very explicit sex, religious themes, mental health & manipulation**_

_Feedback is always appreciated :)_

* * *

There was nothing but Erik.

The faint orange glow of the gas-fire cast him in an uncanny light such that all else blurred into the gloom. She was only standing because he was––the white of his dress shirt glowed like a beacon in the swallowing dark and she clung to it, intoxicated; all else was inscrutable. Without it, she was nothing––_without him, she was nothing_––

Surely Christine would be lost forever should she release him.

He was an Angel again, a Spectre once more; that unknowable enigma that had beguiled her and lavished upon her the cruelest love and caused her the most sublime pain––

And destroyed her, and created her again more beautiful and perfect than she could ever have imagined. But this creation could exist only in His presence, in the presence of her God––and now He was here, and again only His voice resounded within her––

She was free.

Like a sinner at the altar, Christine raised her arms to the dark halo of His hair and clutched it in her reverent fingers, and groaned in unabashed ecstasy, as His consecrating lips blessed her flesh.

And Erik loved her––he loved her like no mortal man had ever loved a woman; he loved her like a fire that destroyed the wood that fed it, like a comet that crashed from Heaven to perish in a devastating blaze.

Erik loved her; this she knew. So Christine loved him in return.

Firelight glinted off the little golden ring as Erik brushed his lips atop her fingers and slid the hot flat of her hand over his chin.

She pressed her palm to his chest, exciting at the quickening heat of his flesh under hers, and in doing so, realized how long she had craved _touching_ him. She had never thought much about how little she had, in truth. It was such a simple thing, a little thing, to touch another––and Erik had always denied it.

Erik had almost never touched her.

But now the Angel was here––he gripped her to him and dragged his holy palms over her flesh; he wound his fingers in her hair to turn her head and crush her to his lips––

Christine slid her fingers over his shirtfront to tease between the pearl buttons. She felt his heart; felt it beating, powerful beneath her hand.

_This was the heart of the Angel._

He studied her face as she unbuttoned his collar. Questioning, hardly daring to trust his eyes, he watched her slip his necktie away; he watched it fall forgotten to their feet. His ragged exhale pleased her as she kissed the hollow of his throat, tracing her tongue between kisses over each pale inch of newly exposed flesh. Her fingers followed her mouth, slipping under his crisp shirt front to brush the bare flesh beneath; against her Erik shuddered, groaned.

With a careful finger guiding her chin his lips found hers again.

The sensation that had so often confused her when the unseen Angel commanded her voice during her lessons in the secrecy of the dressing-room came now upon her now, that same heated, sensitive awareness of her sex. Her tremulous laughter had given way to this––_this maddening feeling_––her mind was blank as she gasped the Angel's name upon his lips––_oh_––nothing had ever mattered but this maddening feeling!

_This was the touch of the Angel––_

Now the blood rushed between her thighs, as his hands dragged over her waist and her breast and she understood––_yes_––this was the only option, this was the only way! Because from the very start Christine had desired him––_she must have!_ She remembered his fingers flying over the ivory keys of his piano, mad, inhuman music pouring from the frenzy of his touch as she, only mortal, watched and listened from the little stool at his feet, those delusive nights in his Heaven underground. _Yes_––_yes_––she must have felt it then too.

She had even felt it––_she must have_––when Erik had imprisoned poor Raoul in the burning chamber of mirrors to await his death. Because all of that screaming fear, that sublime hatred––_yes, yes, _was it not this?––_oh,_ it was not so very different at all––

She moaned against his lips and ground her hips to his. Erik drove a leg between her thighs; she shuddered to sense the demanding pressure of him upon the soft roundness of her belly.

_The Angel wanted this._

Mindlessly Christine clutched at the ends of his half-opened shirt––as his skeleton's fingers twisted the silken threads of her curls to knots and his ravenous mouth tasted her throat––to drag the stiff linen from the waist of his trousers.

He choked on an exhale as she drew her hand down atop the dark wool to gently, curiously brush the bulge of his cock––_yes_––_he wanted this!_––then she held him, cupped carefully in her open palm as his black eyes rolled behind the mask; he groaned, stiffening, and his grip became almost painful upon her skin––_oh, God––he wanted this!––_

Then with a ragged exhale Erik broke from her and took a carefully distancing step.

Christine stared at him with eyes like impossible moons. Her cheeks burned. Her lips hung open, the flesh apple-red and shiny as she panted between them. Every breath sent a shudder through her; her fingers twitched against her sweating palms––like a zealot to the pyre, she looked as though she might fling herself upon him, in spite of disaster. She looked as though she could process nothing else.

_The Angel wanted this!_

His palms found her arms; gently, he pinned the heated flesh to her sides. Then, with the barest wrinkling of his brow above the mask, he considered her a moment––her heaving bosom, smothered by the high neckline of her gown, the wet-silk trail of his needy tongue upon her white jaw, her pink blossoming cheeks. Her hair, mad about her shoulders, each curl alight, refracting the golden firelight.

Was it the reflection from the hearth that danced now in her wild eyes, or did they burn entirely from within?

"This is what you want, truly, Christine?" he breathed, cursing his traitorous mind. Firelight shimmered from the little yellow ring on her finger. _His ring, that she willingly wore––_

_He hadn't even forced her to put it on!_

He was nothing more than a monster––a murderer, really––a––_no, no, that wasn't him, it had never been him_––

But this was wrong––he was doing wrong––

Beautiful, virtuous, untouchable Christine––_a lie!_––perfect, immaculate, untainted Christine––_lies!––_

The pounding heartbeat between his legs screamed for relief; it begged him to _stop thinking_. With an impatient whimper Christine shifted in his grasp, she spread her small fingers to brush gracelessly at his cock––_stop thinking! Stop thinking!_

"_Angel––I want it more than anything,_" she whispered, and with a manic leap, wrapped her arms sensuously about his neck to kiss him deeply; now Erik growled and gripped her waist with both palms to lift her fragile form against him, as Christine gave a whimpering cry and wound her legs about his hips.

She hung suspended before the flickering gas-fire, weightless in the marble arms of the Angel, with her thighs parted about him and her sex pressed to his waistcoat, hot upon his flesh even beneath the piles of fabrics crushed between them. As she kissed him her small hands worked frantically, clutching his lips to hers by his hair, his neck, slipping between their crowded bodies to grasp at his silk lapels, his waistcoat, his fine linen shirt––taking up anything and everything in their crashing path with desperate urgency.

Suddenly Erik broke from her kiss with a guttural exhale, gasping the sound upon her open lips. One palm tightened in a near-painful grip atop the cascade of skirts at the underside of her rear; the other thrust forward to the mantle as he steadied himself upon it with a white-fingered fist––

For Christine's impatient hand had found the many buttons of his trousers and freed his erection to brush naked between them, wetly eager upon the silken fabric of her gown.

"––you're mad, Christine," he groaned weakly, as her testing fingers curled about his shaft, "––_y__ou should never have come––"_ Then he bit his tongue in silent torture and thrust a rough hand over her hips, gathering her damp skirts about her waist. The heavy silks and dual-thread taffetas hung from behind her naked thighs like a mermaids tail, draping iridescent to the swallowing black sea; Erik thought her like a dream, and laced her knees with his elbows to better bind her there, should she vanish––

Should she realize it was _him_ who held her.

That searing look he gave her––that he had always given her, as long as she had known him as a man––that look, which had frightened her and excited her in a way she did not want to understand, because she knew the understanding would mean she had learned a truth that could not be un-learned––oh, he gave it to her now, and now––now it did not frighten her!––that look! he did not need a full face to show it, his body sang with it, it shimmered and vibrated from his very core as if it were a divine halo about him––she could live a lifetime on only that look! She would not eat! She would not sleep! God, give her only Erik––

_Give her only the Angel!_

Breathless, her lids fluttering in chaotic rapture, her bewildered fingers swallowed in the mass of skirts and crushed flesh, Christine guided Erik's captured shaft to the impatient core pulsing between her legs.

Clumsily she pressed his length to the soft cotton flesh of her inner thigh––"_Christ, Christine,_" Erik muttered––and met his eye, panting, whining––

"Please," she breathed, "Angel, please…"

She wore plain broderie anglaise panties in the split-bottom style, that Erik regarded greedily even as they bunched a disheveled mound between their connected bodies. With his hands spread upon the fleshy cheeks of her rear Erik shifted Christine against him as her legs, entangled with his arms, flailed helplessly at his sides.

As the white cotton panty smoothed into place, the center slit opened between them, displaying her naked flesh to his eye, presenting her cunt to his touch. Erik's breath shuddered in his throat as he looked on it hungrily––his expression took on an unreadable cast and he met Christine's eye, urgently, staring, staring, for an eternal moment until she gave a strangled exhale and made a little nod––then again he was staring, staring at her cunt, unable to conceal or deny the maddening lust that roiled so plainly beneath his flesh. He was completely immured in the damning obsession of that cunt––

_Christine's eyes––Christine's cunt!_

_Stop thinking! Stop thinking!_

With a growl he shoved a rough hand between their joined bodies to twist in her dark mound of secret hair.

Now her thighs strained about his waist as his cock, rigid and wanting, slapped at the bare underside of her ass. Christine groaned at its moist tease, at the promising sting of his fingers pulling at her hair––

_She was ready for death, she was seeking Heaven––_

With one hand gripping her thigh beneath the tumbling mass of skirts to direct her movement, Erik took up his cock and slid it across the slick crease of Christine's sex. She groaned eagerly and arched her back into his hold; her feverish mouth sought his––as the head of his cock teased the milk-wet mouth of her cunt and soaked itself in her receptive moisture––

Panting, anticipating, Christine broke from his kiss. "_Yes––_" she breathed, "_now––_"

Behind the mask, Erik's stare burned.

Christine gripped his shoulders with white fingers as he entered her slowly, impossibly slowly, his mouth open, his face contorted in agonized rapture––but their gaze never wavered; they scarce blinked should they sever this unspoken connection, this fire that blazed from the one into the other and back again, ever-building in heat, in madness––even as Christine cried out in reflex at the ache of his full length inside of her she did not lower her eyes from his.

In that moment, time stood still.

There was no Erik, no Christine––the world was re-made of only _them_, the two of them, born anew to a single existence. The whole of the universe could be found in Erik's black-hole stare, and Christine regarded it all, so close to the source of it that their eyelashes brushed upon each others sweating skin––she pressed her cheek to the healing cool of his leather flesh, as he opened his mouth upon her jaw––

Just as the entirety of Erik's reality, in this instant and always, was only and would forever be Christine. Nothing could be so real, so exquisite as the sweetness of her sweat upon his tongue, the red-wet mouth of her cunt as it swallowed him whole. It was not the gentle gas-flame that cast the glow about them––it was Christine herself––_endless, radiant, eternal Christine_––the light must have poured directly from the fire in her perfect, open eyes, from the heat in her body that absolved him in its holy embrace––

Now they understood. They accepted. They saw it was ineffable; it was fate––had they traveled any other path it still could not have carried them anywhere else but here, to this moment––no matter the course they followed from here they would forever be joined in _this_––

For that perfect instant, they were one.

In awareness of him Christine shifted her hips upon his shaft and exhaled softly. She dug her fingers into the straining muscles of his rigid back; deliberately she eased herself from him to bear down upon him again; she gave an unrestrained groan––

Oh! And she was so alive! How her open eyes bore into his, glassy, unyielding––she was not afraid, she was not dead!

_Christine, his living wife!_

Then his fingers tightened upon her thighs as he took control of her body to drive her upon him. Her legs flailed in the crooks of his elbows as he crushed her to him––_again, again_––she surrendered to his manipulation, gasping with each frenzied thrust.

_Again––_

_Again––_

Erik's hand flew out to grasp the mantle. Christine's arms wound about his neck. Every breathless groan from his lips aroused her, empowered her, filled her with righteous understanding––she rode each crushing thrust as he buried himself within her, and screamed his name upon his leather skin.

They melted into one rhythm. Now the embrace was rough, impatient, needy––grunting, sweating, as they sought its release––

It did not last long.

"Christine_––God––_"

Erik groaned suddenly and crushed her to him. He stumbled forward upon the mantle as Christine hung about his throat. His white-fingered hands clawed the masonry as he shuddered against her, his mouth open, her name a soundless moan upon his lips––

The brilliant light of _her_ flooded his vision; it numbed him and soothed him, and took away all his pain and doubt, his self-loathing fears and the unending horrors that hounded him when he closed his eyes. Oh, Christine, like the most powerful drug––

Christine was bliss, just as he'd known her to be.

As she was his Angel she blessed him––_she forgave him_––of all of his sins she healed him––he was weightless, he was nothing, he was emptiness itself and nothing could ever harm him again––

He was pure, he was innocent, he was only a child––oh––_he had never even sinned at all_––

But this too, could not last long.

Erik growled as he ejaculated, clutching her to his chest despite his weakening limbs. As he filled her Christine pressed breathless kisses to his neck, cheeks, shoulders––then she drew his mouth to hers and kissed him, deeply, tasting salt upon his wet lips.

Silently, gently, his breath still coming in long ragged pants, he grasped her behind the thighs and lowered her to stand before him. Her still-damp skirts fell about her trembling legs.

Her cunt stung, but not unpleasantly––now, she was a virgin no longer––she felt it, the loss if it, red and engorged between her spent thighs––_how strange, she'd always thought it would have hurt more_––ah, but the Angel had protected her, the Angel would never hurt her––

So too she could feel the wet heat of his seed spilling from inside her to drip down her thigh––yes––how the holy water consecrated her naked flesh––and oh––her woman's blood, it must be––an offering of blood for the Angel––

Yes, this was a woman's feeling, and now she was one. It was sensual, forbidden, _it was his––_yes, yes––like the Holy Mother, she was now––for the Angel had come to her too––

With this he had blessed her.

Now in silence Erik watched Christine. His breath came in labored bursts as his chest heaved––one hand upon the mantle still carried his weight––but his eyes met Christine's with a fervor that heated her skin. She panted, nervous, and returned his stare with a trembling excitement she would never have believed of herself only hours previous.

_How did she get here?_

A dark velvet evening cloak hung wrinkled and forgotten across a nearby overturned lamp-table. He tore his gaze from Christine––he could never stop looking at her, there was still so much to see––and pushing away from the mantle with some effort, thrust out his arm to grasp it; he threw it to the ground before the hearth, over papers and scattered trinkets. Then, gathering Christine's waiting form like a bride in gentle arms––she gave a shuddering exhale as she went limp against him, and fixed her hazy stare to his––the Angel lowered her atop it and kneeled, supplicant, in quiet reverence, beside her.

Firelight danced upon the fragile curves of her body as he studied her.

Her still-damp clothes clung to her, every stitch and curve of her underthings made apparent beneath the fabric. Her dark curls, loosed from their pins by rain and his rapacious fingers, fell about her such that she looked a faerie temptress on a midnight moor. She had come with a little veiled hat–_–_ah, where was the useless thing now?

Torn from her and thrown away.

_Do it again._

Breathlessly Christine watched him, hypnotized by his consideration as if in a trance. His eyes burned into hers––there was something queer about that stare, something different than before––something alive in there that she'd passed over––

And yet it was too familiar, she was well acquainted with that stare––oh, only moments, and yet––

Now his breath came slow, silent, steady, the black gaze intent.

She let him guide her to her stomach with the same soundless gestures he once used to draw her to him in song, the wordless command of those unearthly fingers––she could never refuse those fingers––and shivered as he ran a hand down her spine atop the neat row of mother of pearl buttons that bound her gown from throat to rear.

Slowly, tortuously slowly, and without a word, he unfastened each silvery button, as goose-flesh pricked upon her exposed skin. When he was nearly finished, Christine gathered her hair to accommodate him, smoothing it away and aside on her neck. The cool pads of his thumbs brushed her bare skin in long, deliberate strokes as he spread the gown open over her back; he slid it over her shoulders and down her arms. Trembling, Christine shifted upon the velvet cloak as he worked, easing the gowns movement, to help him slip it over her hips and down her legs.

He threw it away to be swallowed by the dark.

The corset cover came next. With calm, impassive fingers Erik unbuttoned the little cotton top upon her chest. Christine raised her arms above her head obligingly as he eased it from her in silence.

Again, he flung it aside.

"Angel?" breathed Christine, to a silent stroke of his transparent palm upon her pink cheek. She let her lids fall shut as his skeleton's finger dragged upon her parted lip; one finger, two, pressed between her teeth, catching the edges––they pressed deep as her tongue rioted against them––they pressed deep until they teased the back of her throat and her body thrashed absently upon the velvet cloak. Her eyes flew open. He hooked his fingers behind her teeth to draw her to him, pulling her upwards by her confused mouth––then he broke from her to kiss her, gently, chastely, upon the lips.

Erik returned to his task.

Panting, Christine fell back upon the cloak.

Now his fingers trailed the length of her from ankle to shoulder as his heated gaze followed. Christine shivered; now that she could recognize the feeling, it came upon her faster. And yet, it felt so different than before––her breath quickened as new moisture heated the still-swollen place between her thighs. Her skin prickled beneath his inscrutable touch––it alerted her to the tender places she wanted his hand––as now he worked the laces of her corset, loosening each tie with a slip of his finger upon her back.

Still, she felt him in her mouth––

Only their breath––Christine's, shallow and overloud, and Erik's, serene and calculated––and the hissing crackle of the fire interrupted the electric silence.

"Angel––" she whispered, again; he ignored her.

Erik guided her to turn over. On her back, Christine watched as her steel corset busk opened beneath his hand. He let the heavy structure fall about her sides; he wrest it from beneath her arched back and flung it away.

As she heard the dull echo of the thing meeting the floor in shadow, her breath caught in her chest and she whispered, breathlessly, "_Erik?––_"

At the mention of his name he bent to kiss her again, fleetingly, wordlessly, pressing his closed lip hard upon her skin as his eyes shone like two fires in their black sockets; he pulled away even as Christine strained her neck to reach him. Again he met her gaze, staring shamelessly down upon her––and then the barest wrinkle marred his forehead above the mask––

_Angel?––_

_No_––but now he was at her feet, sliding her wet slippers from her curling toes. He threw them aside too, and as they met the ground noisily in the black, Christine writhed, anxious upon the velvet cloak.

He set upon her stockings to tear their ribbons and slide them, two handed, down her trembling legs.

_No––but this, she knew this––_

That intoxicating heat had sparked its torrid fire again in her blood, sending its burning awareness through every part of her, traveling down her veins to burst from each finger, each toe. _That unbelievable fear! _

_No, no––the Angel would never hurt her––_

Oh, and she could not deny it––she could not resist it––

Erik caught the waistband of her panty in both hands and pulled it from her hips, as Christine lifted her bottom obediently, gazing up at him with wide eyes.

In only her chemise she tried to capture the Angel's stare but he wouldn't look at her––oh––and again the blood was rushing in, pounding and throbbing about her skull––

Crushing his palms over the damp fabric, Erik caressed her bodily atop the slip, tracing the curve of her waist, the sharpness of her rib, the roundness of her breast. He squeezed and pushed and stared, as Christine writhed helplessly beneath him, and caught her breath in her throat when he pressed too hard––

_Oh, but had she not been here before?_

"_Erik?––" _she breathed, and still he ignored her, _"I don't understand––_"

Beneath the chemise he dragged both hands over her legs, up, up until he barely brushed her sex with his littlest fingers––she whimpered––and seized upon the tender insides of her thighs to rend them apart. He forced her knees against the velvet cloak as he dragged his hands back down again––

"_I don't understand__––" _

And yet with a groan she raised her arms above her head and arched her back readily––

Erik gripped the chemise and tore it away.


	6. Chapter 6

_**La Nuit Porte Conseil**_

_Chapter Six_

_**A/N: TW Update! All previous warnings apply, now incl. mental illness, consent issues and implied abuse**_

* * *

"Stay."

Christine writhed upon the evening-cloak. Her hazy gaze danced over the shape of the man before her, to the impossible beacon of the gas-fire in the black room, to her own trembling limbs, and was lost in the dark empty just beyond the blaze. She gave a groaning exhale, as her lids fluttered atop her glass stare––

"Open your eyes," Erik hissed above her, through clenched teeth.

Her thighs had begun to drift together and her legs to straighten, as her toes stretched over the soft fabric. Erik gripped her knee, again pressing it to the floor; soundlessly he waited, still clutching the straining joint, and stared until Christine again went limp in his grasp.

When he was satisfied that she would not again move, he released her. Christine blew a ragged moan between her parted lips––her muscles clenched and complained, but even as the long tendons of her thighs began to tremble she would not shift her legs again.

And still, Erik stared.

His shirt and waistcoat hung loose and disordered upon his sweating chest: gracelessly he shrugged them from the translucent flesh to toss them aside. His spent cock twitched, eager beneath the folds of his half-opened trousers––ready again, for release––and he stood slowly, staring, still staring, working the fastenings as Christine watched senselessly from below; they fell and he flung the garment from him, to return to his knees at her waist.

Christine blushed at the intimacy of it, cursing her tremulous heart.

_A sin, to shun an Angel…_

Now she considered him––these secret parts of him, new to her gaze. He was so tall, but she had known that––his height made him fearsome, even in nakedness. And what nakedness! How strange, how utterly sublime, the Angel's true form. Pure white, like marble he was, and as rigid too––every muscle, long and lean and completely visible beneath the white stone shell of his skin, the angles of his bones meeting the muscles as clearly as if there were no flesh at all–– Like a skeleton, or very nearly, brought to life such as those in paintings of the macabre, of Death himself!––Erik, the very Angel of Death!

And Christine…his victim.

"Touch yourself, Christine," said the Angel of Death, as he took up his cock in his fist.

And what a cock––no mortal man could have one to rival it. Purple and red and straining it was a beast in its own right––the burning sword of the Angel––Christine could hardly believe the thing had been inside her at all.

But there was power in it––it called to her, wept for her––even as the Angel kneeled before her in his mortal guise it would not succumb. It rose from the open fabric as if from the grave––to claim her, to kill her, to cast her down below––as creamy moisture glistened upon the head of it, waiting, eager, ready––

Now Erik stroked the thing carnally as he watched Christine, her aching legs spread wide on the velvet cloak beneath.

With her fingers between her thighs she praised him.

"Show me_,_" breathed the Angel.

Christine drew her feet close to her sex; she arched her back to lift her rear––her abdomen burned with the strain of it, as ruddy heat flushed her cheeks, her ears, the space between her small breasts––

"_Show me,_" he growled again above her.

She pressed a hot finger into the winking mouth of her cunt; again her eyelids fluttered atop her feverish gaze––

"Keep your eyes open!" he snapped.

She met his stare. Her mindless fingers groped between her thighs; she chewed her open lip and breathed his name––again, like a prayer, Christine called to the Angel––

Christine, _alive and wanting him._

_When he had only ever seen his dead wife there––_

"Do you like to see me, little living Christine?" breathed Erik, surrendering to the sight of her.

"_Yes, Angel––_"

"Erik's little living wife––always a tease, and now she's pinching her own clit for him!"

"_Yes, Angel!_"

"A dead wife doesn't move, not like you do, Christine––did you know it?"

On the velvet cloak she rocked her hips into her own disordered fingers, touching herself carelessly, thoughtlessly, as her dizzying heartbeat hummed in her breast.

She wanted the Angel to see her, to claim her again––to fill her with something, anything––anything, to numb the riotous ache behind her open eyes––the Angel had the answers––

But the electric tension stilled. Her fingers ceased their motion, frozen atop her sex.

Now on his knees before her, the Angel frowned. With a curious finger he lifted the golden bauble from between her breasts, as his cock hung rigid between his thighs.

Reading him, Christine arched her back to rest on her elbows. "Angel?"

"You have kept this with you?" he asked finally, quietly, as the thing dangled between them.

"I wear it always," she breathed.

"Why?"

"For the Angel, of course," she said seriously. His skeleton's fingers coiled about the key, crushing it in his fist. Then he dropped back on his knees, staring, as Christine's breast rose and fell feverishly before him.

He met her eyes, lost.

"You are a very good girl, Christine," he said, and gave her a look of absolute misery, "why have you let me do this to you? My darling girl––I've ruined you––" The key fell from his open palm; he stared at the chain as it curled upon the pale flesh of her chest.

He had tried to tell her to go. _He had tried!_ It wasn't right, to have her here like this, to have her with her eyes open––

And _he_ had done it again––

Now Christine writhed before him, still showing him her pink cunt––she was so _wet_ for him––soaked, for him! The red mouth shined with creamy moisture––it spilled from her and stained her thighs, as she licked her lip and hazily met his eye, and again teased her little clit with her own mindless fingers.

Some of that was his––his own shameful seed, blasphemous in that perfect cunt.

_But there was no blood..._

"Angel?" breathed Christine, still gazing up at him even as he kneeled, numb, beside her. She dragged her milky fingers over the bare flesh of her thigh, her belly, her breast––she was so alive, not dead at all really––not at all like she was then––

But she had come back to him, begged for him, cried for him!

Christine whined, impatient, beneath him. "_Angel––tell me what to do––_"

That first night––that damned night––he should never have given in, he should never have brought her down below! But she had sung so, so beautifully. _She was so, so beautiful…_

God––that night––with her laying in his mother's bed, half-chloroformed, half mad––

Erik had undressed her as she slept.

It was innocent enough, he had told himself––she couldn't sleep in that corset, not still with the chloroform in her system––her breath could stop in the night.

But that was exceedingly rare. She should have kept it on.

But even then she had not looked like this, so trusting, so bare, in the orange firelight––

With her eyes open, meeting his with such unbearable light in their depths––_oh God, Christine, forgive him_––

This was not the first time he had seen her cunt.

He had shed her of her gown easily enough that night, as she shifted about limp as a doll under his hand, and then the corset. His cock raged in his trousers as he touched her with as much indifference as he could manage, but he ignored it––a near-lifetime of celibacy makes one rather adept at ignoring it––

Then as he arranged the blankets around her, she shifted, she turned away, and curled her legs beneath her like a child. She moved her arms fitfully as if dreaming; she gave a little moan; her petticoat rode up over her knee to expose her stockinged thigh––oh_––__it was different, it didn't count, it was _his_ fault!_

Christine had not been wearing anything beneath.

By the Devil he had tried not to do it––for what felt like hours he held his white fist at his side, willing himself to turn around, walk away, lock the door––anything, please, to not let _him _do it, as his cock wept, screaming in his trousers.

But then _he_ dragged a palm over the fleshy curve of her thigh and over her rear, forcing the fabric aside. Christine rolled sleepily to her stomach; he pushed her petticoats up around her waist––

At first he had been gentle; he traced her curves with trembling fingers, afraid to wake her––no, no, nothing could have woken her––and then he was squeezing her, kneading her white flesh in his palms until it showed red and raw beneath his hands. The puffy lips of her sex peeked from between her thighs, closed and pink and soft; on an exhale _he_ touched them, just barely––he would never have done it himself––

But––_forgive him!_––Christine breathed a long sigh and shifted sleepily to her back. Her eyes fluttered and again closed tight, as her head fell against the pillow upon her halo of dark curls.

_No, nothing could have woken her…_

Her legs had folded about her as she moved. Her sex hid from his view, save for the shadow of its black hair in the soft crux of her thighs––

He didn't touch her!

But _he _grabbed her and spread her thighs wide, and held her there such that both her knees pressed against the mattress on either side of her––and her soft lips parted to show him her red cunt––

_Oh, God, Christine, forgive him––_

He did not go through with it––it was only a thought, a passing thought––truly he'd never intended anything by it––it was only _him_ who did––but before he tore himself from the room and locked it from the inside he'd been nearly atop her with one knee on the mattress, as _he_ worked the buttons of his fly.

Because _he _nearly had.

He wasn't sure how he had managed not to––in truth he could not remember––

But when he leaned on the outside of her closed bedroom door he could smell her, honey-sweet and sour on _his_ fingers. He could taste the sugar of her on_ his _tongue––

Oh, and she had whimpered so sweetly––

No, no, he hadn't meant to––

It had become easier, after, of course––he tried so hard, to never hurt her––as she moved so sweetly about him he avoided any touch of her skin, no matter how innocently it was intended. He left her alone for hours, days at a time, in the cottage underground––

And he made her always lock her bedroom door.

Oh, but that was foolishness, for only Erik held the key––

But still he could not bring her back above. Still _he_ kept her with him. It was selfish, he knew, but was it not better than doing the worst?

Erik wanted to keep her, always.

He liked the sound of her in the cottage, the girlish smell of her as she moved about as he played. How she would bring him tea, and coffee, and little white cookies she'd made, and make him eat even when he wasn't hungry in the least.

He liked the sweet way she'd ask him shyly, with her trembling hands wrapped about each other, to tell her old stories and play his violin at night––_just like her dead father––_no, no, she must have known better than that_––_

For two long weeks _he_ would not let her go above.

She did not remember––he had not expected she would––she never remembered anything, really––

And how could he have told her? He did love her…he loved her far too much…

If she'd known she would have left him alone down below. She would never have returned.

Killed herself, to be free of him––of _him_, as she had tried just six days ago.

"Oh, forgive me, Christine––" he groaned, and brought his hands to his face.

_He could not tell her still._

Christine gazed absently up at him from the evening-cloak. Her trembling fingers caressed her naked breasts, belly, thighs––wet trails shown in the firelight upon her marble flesh. She could not have anticipated his words; for a moment she chewed her lip, she blinked. She tipped her head, just barely, she smiled serenely and did not understand––

Urgent heat boiled between her legs––she was so dizzy, it was so hard to _breathe_––before her the Angel's cock hung abandoned, rigid and weeping, ready––_but he had wanted this––_

"No…" she said finally in distressed protest, as she watched him through the spaces his clutching fingers carved atop the mask, "_Angel, no…_"

Moisture stained her thighs as Christine bent at the waist to sit beside him. She reached for him; her hands slid across his shoulders, his back. She drew him to her, to press kisses to his hands, his arms, his chest; he stiffened with every caress as if her touch pained him.

"Why do you do this, Christine?" Erik said wretchedly, "You hardly know me. _If you did_––oh, my love––_stop that, Christine_––see what has become of you, since you have returned to my care? Oh god––before? See how easily I break my promises, how willingly I lose control––oh, forgive me!––I hoped it wasn't true––

"Christine, Christine...Erik has deceived you..."

"My love, its nothing, just a key, a little key…Here. Have me again…I'll welcome you gladly," she offered, though her voice trembled beneath the words.

"You mustn't say that, Christine––_stop that! _Don't you see how I've hurt you?"

Erik snorted a rough exhale as he swiped at her reaching fingers; his eyes flew over the floor between them. Christine coiled her fingers about themselves and followed his frantic gaze, confused. Now her brow furrowed as she said seriously, "Erik! What is this? You done no wrong by me, I assure you!"

"_Haven't I, Christine?_ No blood!_ No blood!_ Oh…she does not know…I am weak. See how I have manipulated you? You trust me still! Poor child, she hasn't noticed––

"_Look, Christine. _You haven't bled. There is no blood! _No blood, Christine!_"

She said nothing, though her eyes widened. Her fingers whitened in their grasp.

"Were you a virgin when we met? Has the boy had you?"

"Erik! Don't be absurd!" she complained breathlessly, then quieted under his stare.

"Tell me," he said seriously.

She gave a tinny laugh. "No, no, my love––why would you ask such a––"

"Someone else?"

"Erik!" she protested, "what is this?"

"_Tell me!_"

She balked.

"No one, Angel––stop this, please––_you're frightening me_––"

"Oh, rightly so! How I wish that you had, Christine––" he said miserably.

At this her brow furrowed, but Erik had gripped her by the wrist before she could give a reply, and with a burst of force turned her bodily atop the velvet cloak such that she fell in an undignified pose upon her side––she gave a surprised cry––then he gripped her flailing ankle and wrenched her legs apart. Holding the leg captive in the air he slid four impatient fingers along the still-wet valley of her sex––she shouted in protest and tried to right herself, and Erik released her to fling her foot towards the floor. She scrambled to sit, flushing hotly.

He thrust his wet fingers before her face. "There is no blood, Christine, you stupid girl! _Look!" _

"Erik!" She gripped his wrist and drew the hand from her face, as he panted above her.

"Angel, I don't understand, please…do you doubt me? I would never! _My God_, this is the boldest thing I've ever done––and yet we are married, are we not––you are my husband, Angel, my Angel… I have done nothing wrong! Of course there is blood, my love, if that is your proof––" she turned his hand over in her palm, "_oh…_"

"No blood, Christine," he breathed.

"Perhaps it's, oh, I don't know. It's gone now, but I felt it before…"

"That wasn't blood, Christine––_oh, God, forgive me––_"

"I am no whore, Erik! I have never been!"

"Have I not made you one?"

"_Erik!_"

"Hush, my love, please––I would love you if you had a thousand men––"

"Then why ask, my Angel," she breathed.

He groaned. "You stupid child, _because you've only had the one!_"

Now her muscles strained as she groped for his anguished face. Capturing it she kissed him deeply and for a moment he returned her embrace; she drew him to her as her back arched towards the floor; now he was kissing her, he was surrendering––he was atop her again, nearly straddling her there upon the black velvet, his cock hard between her thighs––

Suddenly Erik broke from her with a violent wrenching of his head. He drew his bare knees beneath him and sat like a child, wrapping his arms about his narrow self such that the white fingers gripped the hard bones of his spine and rocked his body forward, again and again as if he intended to curl in upon himself and cease to exist. Christine regarded this––stunned and yet not-stunned––as she lay forgotten upon the velvet floor.

It was a pattern she had witnessed before, many times in truth, though it was the sort of action one forgets until it comes about to remind them, and they wonder how they could ever have forgotten. How many times had Erik condemned himself before her? How many times had he begged forgiveness at her feet?

And how many times had he forgotten himself, and very nearly killed her?

No––no––that was never his intention, surely––that was a dream––_the Angel would never hurt her, the Angel loved her very much_––v_ery, very, very much_––

Now his blank eyes stared at nothing as he rocked before her. His speech came ragged and growling, every exhale a forced puff on the downstroke of his form.

"Why do you ask for your ruin, stupid girl? Do you understand what you have lost? Not your maidenhood, Christine, not only…not now…and to whom?"

Again his skeleton's fingers crept over the mask as he worked the leather in unfeeling strokes upon the ruined flesh. "Damn it all, Christine, _what have I done?_––I should never have begun this terrible charade; I should never have given you that key! I have stolen your future in my selfishness––your good and simple life, your security––happiness––for my lust!––_oh_––and I have lied to you to have it, I have lied, lied, lied––"

He met her agonized expression with his own through parted fingers. "I can offer you nothing––_nothing, Christine! When by rights you should have everything!–_–Oh, I love you, I do, but I have only ever taken from you––_I'm afraid I've taken too much, from you_––what right have I to any of this––I can't say it, don't make me say it––_Christine, Christine_––_you wouldn't want to know!_"

His limp cock hung defeated upon his thigh, the milk-white tip wet upon his blue-gossamer flesh. Christine watched the blood moving beneath his translucent skin, like blue rivers within his holy form...

_The Angel is a blessing!_

"_Dear Angel,_ _Angel_––you must not speak this way," Christine breathed, "please––you are good! You are good! I would not be here if you were otherwise! _Look_––I love you! Please––_you're frightening me! _Let me kiss you again, my love––that will help you, will it not?" She brushed his thigh with an inviting palm, slipping the fingers close to his sleepy length; he flinched and ceased his rocking, and threw her a look of such consuming wrath that she gasped and drew her hand away.

He groaned miserably into his hands. "I never touched you when I kept you here––oh, no, no––that is another lie, I'm sorry, _he's sorry_––see! another lie! _He's never sorry, Christine!_

"_Please, don't ask me––_still you were preserved, in so much as it matters, my love, I think––I never hurt you, not really, did I?" His gaze captured hers through his fingers, and shot away just as quickly. "Oh––did _he_? no, no––as long as you didn't know––still you retained your freedom. _As long as you didn't know!_

"But now––it is worse, is it not? It's me, Christine, you came to _me_! Alive! Alive! _Christine, alive! _See! And_ he _had you again...you made it too easy!

"And now I know…_I know! _Oh, I wish I did not…you should never have come…and Erik cannot pretend this hasn't happened! You cannot escape from this!"

Christine could not help but tremble as his explicit gaze swept frantically over her naked flesh, though in excitement or fear she could not tell which––ah, but the two were the same, were they not, with the Angel? Though she could make no sense at all of his words––no sense at all––she was so warm, too warm, so very warm––

"_Oh, my love_––again so easily I am tempted, and so easily I bring about your destruction. You are much too beautiful, too beautiful for this––forgive me––you must believe I tried to resist––_promise you believe it, Christine!_––

He met her gaze feverishly, moaned, and pressed his flattened palms to his temple as if to crush his skull between them. Christine groped at his hands, clawing at his fingers, as he shook his head about to cast her from him.

"Stop that, girl––_pay attention!_ Tell me, temptress––do you think the boy will take you still, now that Erik has had you? Oh, Christine…And if you bear his child? _My child!_ Erik's! A little thing, just like––no––no––_stupid Christine_––has it occurred to you––has _that_––and yet you give yourself to me? _My God, he never considered a child_…

"Oh––oh!––I have marked you for ridicule! I have bound you to me in selfishness! _With lies! _You can have no life with me! I am not alive!" He thrust a skeletal finger towards the bauble that coiled shimmering upon her throat.

"_That is the Devil's key you wear!"_

"Angel, Angel!" she cried.

"_Christine, Christine!_" he echoed sardonically. "Oh, you stupid, stupid girl––I have tried to send you away, I have tried to keep you from me––_I did not mean to do it, darling, forgive me!_––oh, curse him! I imprison you even so!"

As Erik stilled, panting between his fingers, Christine pulled herself to sit before him. She curled her naked legs beneath her as her hands padded helplessly at his chest, shoulders, thighs––_Angel, Angel,_ she breathed––as her every touch brought a ragged exhale from his lips, until he grasped her fingers and drew them from him. He lowered his eyes.

"There is no Angel, Christine," he hissed. She shook her head, barely.

"What can you mean by all this?" Christine said, when it seemed he had quieted, "Angel! Erik!––_what do you mean by this?_" then, out of the pounding drumbeat in her skull came the sudden realization of the possibility––_a child_––a child with Erik's face––

"_Oh!_" she gasped through her teeth, as Erik glowered.

But, no, no––it would not come to that––it couldn't happen the first time, besides––

_And the Angel was beautiful…_

"Angel, please," she continued, "I have chosen my path––and it is righteous! _H__ere I am!_ See! I have accepted my decision, and all the consequences of it._"_ Now desperation flavored her words.

"I give myself to you because I desire it. Please––_my Angel_––think not of Raoul––whatever he will think of me. Do not say his name! He is my fiancé no longer! You are my husband now. My children will be yours, my love! They will not be bastards. And we will love them, together, together wherever you go, together in Heaven––whatever they look like. I will remain with you, Angel, until I am dead!"

"Then you die in prison, with _him,_ Christine," Erik growled. "You can have no life with me––I have stolen your choice, in my damned lust––you little whore, I have cursed you––you've made me do it!" Then his tone softened, as he added, "oh, God, I have to tell you something––_"_

"_This is my choice, and no one else's!_" Christine said suddenly, too shrilly, as her fingers clutched at her throat. "You do not control me! No one controls me! I will do what I please!" But she was panting, and her eyes made impossible moons as she met Erik's gaze. She huffed an exhale through her nose and glared.

Any words he might have said died on his lips as he choked out a groan, for now Christine folded upon him and took up the soft flesh of his limp cock in her mouth, sucking and pulling the pliant thing between her cheeks. Erik froze, as his useless hands curled in the air before them.

Christine could feel him stiffening, growing between her lips––when he made no move to stop her, she wrapped her hand about the base of his shaft to hold him in her open mouth.

Now his mindless fingers wound in her hair as he bunched and piled the curls atop her head, to better see her as she dragged her tongue along his now-rigid length from base to tip.

"_Why are you like this?_" Erik breathed, through closed teeth. "Why now?" Christine pressed kisses along his shaft as he watched; she licked at the purple head––he shuddered; again, he was ready––he groaned, and moved his hips to bury himself in her wet, welcoming mouth––

But then he grasped her head with both hands and pulled her from him. She coughed; with the flat of her hand she wiped her spit from her lips as Erik stared at her with wide eyes.

"Sweet child, what has happened to you?"

"Please––_Angel_––_I'm so frightened––_" she breathed.

"Christine, my love…this is all my fault," he sighed, sadly.

"_I need you––"_

"God forgive me, I am doing wrong by you…" He glanced at his cock, rigid and still wet from her mouth, "but my need for you has ever been too great, Christine––"

* * *

_**Another A/N****:** Let's talk about blood! I know, as you know, that blood is not an accurate indication of virginity (and neither is a broken hymen) BUT the Victorians did not know that. This often lead __to all kinds of misunderstandings, as you can probably imagine..._


	7. Chapter 7

_**La Nuit Porte Conseil**_

_Chapter Seven_

_**A/N: **__TW Update! All previous warnings apply (mental illness, PTSD, emotional abuse, suggested physical abuse, some others if you caught them) now incl. consent_

_Feedback and reviews are greatly appreciated :)_

* * *

Christine panted in his grip.

"Angel––tell me what to do," she breathed, as Erik looked on with every cell of his body still screaming for him to _let her go, let her keep going, stop thinking, stop thinking so damned much_––

He held her from him by her hair, tangling her silken curls to knots at the base of her skull in a bloodless hand. Like an animal in a trap Christine's frantic gaze shifted from Erik, to his red cock, to the enveloping dark, as her every labored breath shivered her soft flesh. Her pink tongue darted forward to wet her lips; Erik frowned.

"Christine," he sighed, regarding her uncertainly, "you cannot mean what you say..."

The reflected blaze of the gas-fire danced in her wild eyes as she squirmed against his hold. She was trying to bring her head down again upon his waiting cock as it throbbed and twitched beneath her gaze––silvery moisture pooled in the tremulous hollow of her throat and teased the secret skin between her breasts.

Erik sighed. With stilted fingers he followed the hypnotic trails of her sweat. He captured a droplet atop her wrinkled nipple to taste her salt on his lips, and watched her lips as she struggled in his grasp, repeating breathlessly, "_please––_"

_You've never had her mouth…not really._

In his free hand he took up his still-eager cock and gave it a vicious pump in his fist. Christine chewed her lip and forced an impatient whimper between her teeth; that same salvific frisson began its tortuous ascent of her spine, sparking blinding heat in the blue rivers of her veins to light fires beneath her fingertips and behind her eyes––despite the answering sting of the Angel's grip Christine threw her head back to bask in his freeing light––

Erik closed his eyes on a sigh. Even he couldn't deny she was lost.

But the Devil, as always, whispered his temptations in his ear. _You don't need to force her, not now. She's a liar. She's always wanted it. Every time, she wanted it. She won't even say no._

"Won't even say no..." Erik echoed aloud, frowning, and opened his eyes.

Christine fixed her gaze steadily to his, staring up at him through the dense feathering of her dark lashes.

_She's yours for the taking…she'll even look you in the eye. You can do anything you want to her now––anything at all––_

_Anything, Erik._

He snorted an exhale in surrender. Then with a sudden violence Erik forced her atop his cock by her hair; unresisting, Christine received him, choking and sputtering as he buried the sizable length of him in her working throat.

_No more corpses, if you just keep Christine––_

By her hair he dragged her up and down again atop his cock, forcing her lower, lower, himself deeper, until her pink cheeks crushed against his aching testicles; she gagged upon the length of him, as liquid overflowed from her drooling mouth to make hot, sticky pools in the soft creases of his thighs.

_Is this not all you have always wanted?_

Erik growled her name, repeated the word like a holy chant, and wound her curls in his fingers until she cried out; his suffocating cock distorted the sound in her mouth as it vibrated upon his length as groaning, he forced her head back down again.

_No––_

Christine dug her nails into the soft flesh of his thigh until blood pricked beneath her fingers as her other hand flailed uselessly upon the tangled mass of the velvet cloak.

_He never wanted a doll, he never wanted to hurt her…he wanted her to love him! To want him!_

_Could he not have that? Could she not love him, love him, love him––_

_But she looks just as beautiful as if she were dead,_ he hissed, with the Devil's forked tongue deep in his skull.

_She is just as beautiful when she is dead._

Again Erik wrenched Christine from his shaft with a shuddering groan, and watched her beneath him as spit drooled from her panting mouth.

His expression contorted as he released her; he glared at his splayed fingers before him as if they had wronged him. Then he rounded on Christine as she stared, coughing, and water poured down her cheeks.

"_Damn you!" _he growled, "Was _that_ not enough, Christine? Do you not have your proof?" he said darkly. His breath shuddered from his hammering chest. Between his thighs, his soaked cock pulsed with urgency, every vein rigid and angry upon its swollen length. "I can't even stop now, Christine––_he_ can't––get out of here, I beg you––leave with your girlish fantasy––keep it, you stupid child, and think better of me––"

"No," she returned, still panting, and spat on the floor.

Erik eyed her miserably. "Christine, Christine, _he's me_––do you hear? Get out, _do you hear? _Oh, why won't you just go––"

But Christine wasn't listening; long before, she had ceased to––_oh, the Angel is salvation, the Angel will protect her––_

She had righted herself; now she worked her thumbs in the soft places of her temples, pressing into the flesh as if to crush her skull between them. Spittle crusted in the corners of her mouth unnoticed. "_Stop, stop! _Angel––please," she muttered, and coughed.

The numbing light of the Angel had crept about the corners of her vision as if it overflowed from the very crux of her throbbing skull, consuming all in searing brilliance; now it painted her vision with a thousand white stars, every one awash in unbearable fire––_oh_––blistering, raging, scorching––

_The holy fire of the Angel!_

This blaze would absolve only the worthy and burn the undeserving.

_She must be worthy of him––_

"I feel faint, Angel––I'm sorry––_it hurts_––" Christine breathed, and squeezed her eyelids shut.

_Angel, Angel––do not let her burn!_

Erik quieted. Now he regarded Christine curiously as she dug her knuckles harder and harder into the pounding cavities of her skull, seemingly consumed by the task. With a long exhale, he brought a careful thumb to her face to wipe the spittle from the corner of her lip as she ignored him; he let his fingers cup her pale jaw to draw her gaze to his.

"Yes, Christine––I know, I'm sorry," he said meaningfully, as he drew back his long fingers to coil them in a white fist, "you'll feel better soon."

But Christine had gathered herself once again, crawling forward on her reddened knees to close the space between them. "Do not shun me, Angel, my love––I'm sorry, I'll do better next time," she breathed, and pressed her hot palms flat upon his shuddering breast, "see?––see how I love you?"

Erik captured her hands in his own to pin them against his chest. "Is this love?" he said wearily, "is this love? Christine, you sweet fool, can you not see what I have done to you?"

"It's love, I love you, it's love!" she protested shrilly, clawing her nails into his flesh despite his hold. She pounded her fists upon his chest like a child. Erik gripped her tighter; she quieted, adding in a sob, "I will die, without you_––it burns, it burns!_––don't you see––you have to want me––"

"It's not, Christine, by God––not really––and you won't, you won't, staying with me only would kill you faster––oh, my love––_if you only understood_––" he released her; her hands climbed his shoulders, his face, groping and clutching at his sticking flesh as Erik ignored her caresses with his head miserably downcast, and muttered even as she pressed her desperate fingers to his lips, "oh, no, no…I'm sorry…I can't tell you, I can't, please, go home––_I'm sorry, Christine_––"

"No."

The fire-light carved shadows upon her pink brow as Christine fixed her bleak stare to his; her scrabbling fingers stilled to warm the cooling flesh of his shoulders with their trembling heat.

Erik frowned. "You need to leave, Christine," he said seriously. "I'll take you back above."

She shook her head hastily, convulsively, as her teeth dug hard into the white line of her lower lip.

"_Sweet child,_" Erik sighed.

But the fire told her what she must do.

The fire promised Paradise, if Christine could only survive its heat––

With a ragged exhale she lunged forward to coil herself about Erik as he sat, stunned, his pale legs crossed atop the disordered cloak; she climbed atop him to saddle his naked hips as she wrapped her arms sensuously about his throat.

Again Christine opened herself to him, arching her back and spreading her thighs to show him the red flesh of her cunt.

"Angel, Angel, see how I love you?" she breathed, as distracted, Erik stared down into the hot crush of their bodies at her exposed sex. The musky scent of her filled his nostrils; he sighed.

"_Angel––see?_" Christine repeated, watching him.

"Christine, please, don't" he said wearily, still staring reverently into her cunt, "you can stop now, my love––it's all right––it's over, you can stop now..."

"I don't want to stop," she sighed, as she shifted her hips atop his, "_want me._"

"You fool...I wish I could not..." he protested weakly, as his mindless palms slid bodily along her spine to circle the fragile curve of her waist. Christine shivered at his touch; he huffed a soft groan between clenched teeth.

"Please," she whined, "_Angel_––_tell me what to do._"

_Tell her––_

Erik shifted beneath her. He crossed his legs to cradle the soft flesh of her rear; as he moved, Christine pressed a palm into the hard muscle of his thigh behind her, arching her back such that her breasts shuddered before his lowered face.

_Tell her!_

Erik gave a meaningful groan, a guttural exhale, and passed his palm in the barest caress atop the white flesh.

_Would you tell her? _hissed his Devil. _Would you betray me?_

_I have protected you. I have given you all you desired. You have never been stronger than me._

_If you tell her, I will keep her always._

"You can still go, Christine," Erik said raggedly. He took her breast in a hand, watching his own fingers manipulate the pale flesh, "if you go, you'll be safe, you'll live––don't let me do this to you, please––please, go––"

But this, Christine understood; this was easy––this, a distraction––_a blessing_––

With a moan Christine curled her spine into his touch; she brought a hand behind his scalp to crush his mouth to hers. Now they were kissing, kissing––the wet tip of Erik's still-hard cock teased her black pubis with every roll of her hips, bumping and dragging over the sticking flesh as he groped between their bodies at her small breasts––Christine broke from him to gasp an eager cry upon his open mouth––

"Stop me, Christine," Erik growled upon her sweating throat even as he clutched at her, "please, _stop me––_"

But Christine grasped his hand in hers and brought his fingers to her mouth; she drew them slowly between her lips, tortuously slowly, one at a time as she met his eye with her supine gaze––the empty desperation he knew so well––

_Sweet Christine––what had he done to her?_

With each wet embrace Erik exhaled heavily, and watched her as his breath shuddered from his open throat. His other hand dropped limply between them to rest useless upon the soft fleshiness of her lower abdomen.

"Is this not what you want?" Christine breathed, and she dragged his long finger between her parted lips. "_My love, my Angel––_let me give you what you want––" she chanted, twisting and coiling her tongue about the bone as Erik stared miserably between the crush of their bodies. His thumb skirted her pubis as he dragged his palm over the fleshy curve.

_Tell her––oh, God––_

"I can't, Christine––" he sighed, staring, touching, frowning––as his Devil chanted in his ears, _do you feel your pink belly growing, sweet Christine? Growing, growing, growing––_

"Let me try again, my love, my Angel, I'll do better this time––"

His cock rubbed knowingly at the sticking flesh between her straining thighs as Christine dragged another finger between her panting lips––

_Growing, growing, growing, sweet Christine––_

"Christine––" Erik tried, in a shuddering growl, "_forgive me––_" and stared at Christine's mouth. "I have tried, Christine, believe me––I tried so desperately not to––you must know that––

"_Damned_ _temptress––_I am trying to free you! If you only knew the truth––"

_She would learn it soon enough, _the Devil hissed.

"Christine, I––"

But his words caught in his throat and he gave a strangled groan, as Christine lowered his hand to her groin to press his wet fingers to the slick flesh of her sex. As she held him there she shifted into the pressure of his hand, using her own to crush him to her.

"_Please,_" she whined, "_help me…make it stop…_"

_Yours, yours…_

Erik exhaled raggedly at the stirring moisture of her cunt in his hand; mindlessly he passed a long finger, two, across the soaked mouth. Christine gave a whining moan in relief as her eyelids fluttered atop her dark gaze.

_Anything you want…_

"Christine––look at me, my love," he breathed, frowning. "Let me see you––" Her lids snapped open, her eyes beneath feral and black. Erik captured her stare––he sighed––

_Anything at all…_

With a thumb he found her clit––she let out a surprised gasp and clung at his shoulders with both hands as he circled the swollen nub slowly, deliberately, and Christine rolled her hips into his touch.

Beneath her searching fingertips, Christine felt the wrinkled softness of innumerable scars upon the flesh of his back, and traced the ruined damage as his powerful muscles moved beneath her hand. These silken fissures––

_All that remained of his wings._

"Can you truly not remember, Christine?" Erik said quietly, as his thumb worked steadily between them, "tell me, please––the truth––_you must be, Christine_––are you pretending to forget?"

She gave a moan and panted, "forget, my Angel?…no, no…"

Behind the mask Erik closed his eyes as Christine writhed above him. When he opened them she was watching him; she chewed her lip and tilted her jaw in a childish frown.

"_My sweet girl…_" he sighed, and without relenting in his caress pressed a gentle kiss to her closed lips. "It's nothing…_nothing, Christine_…"

Erik remembered.

She had stayed with him, in her little bedroom underground, for four days. It was a Wednesday.

How beautiful she had looked then, sleeping so soundly, for so, so long, with her white gown billowing about her like cotton wings, and her knees curled up beneath it nearly to her breasts as her dark curls spread in a silken halo upon the mattress.

_Just like an Angel._

When he climbed into the bed behind her he had only wanted to smell her hair. He had always wanted so badly to just smell her hair…

Erik remembered. Erik remembered everything, even the things that he forgot––and he forgot so many things––

She never even made a sound. Even when he held her knee up high by his palm and eased himself behind her––

Not a sound. Barely a movement.

_His dead wife._

When he was done, he cleaned her with a warm, wet rag, and Christine had slept for six hours more.

Now he passed a palm atop her hair, dragging the loose curls toward his face to sniff her fragrance, as Christine shifted her hips into his fingers, alive and meeting his with her own living eyes––

"_Sweet, sweet girl,_" he repeated, surrendering, as the Devil laughed in his ear.

With one hand on his shoulder Christine clutched his knee to brace herself upon him. Erik sighed, watching her.

"Shall I make you sing again, little dove?" Erik said, softly, still rolling his thumb steadily atop her clit, "would you like that, my love?"

She fixed her clouded stare to his. A red flush had climbed the pale flesh between her breasts to bloom atop her chest, reaching ever upward to stain her throat, her cheeks, her nose––sweat beaded atop her sticking skin to slide the length of her body and pool between them.

Her lids fluttered atop her eyes; as she breathed his name his expression darkened, and still he stared at her features––moving, living, expressive features––

"Christine, my love, look at me––"

Her head lolled against his, as her panting breaths echoed in his ear. When she did not turn he brought his free hand to her chin and directed the unresistant flesh before his gaze. "Please," he repeated, "_please_––I need you to keep your eyes open, Christine."

"_Yes_…_Angel…_" she said, between labored breaths, blinking. As she met Erik's stare she gave a little smile, and huffed an exhale between her teeth.

Erik took her jaw in a careful palm to kiss her, delicately, reverently, as she writhed atop his fingers; Christine caught his lip between her teeth and dragged it from him as she threw back her head and moaned. They broke apart.

Erik stared, his expression unreadable behind the mask.

"Christine––" he sighed, and ran a finger across his smarting lip. "Christine, I love you…"

_Pretend._

She gave no response but a low whine and pressed her forehead to his to steady herself upon him.

In a short gesture he brought his thumb to his lips to suck on it, briefly––the white skin shone wet in the half-light––then returned the hand to her sex; Christine gasped weakly as it caught her sensitive nub again.

Now she groped carelessly between them at his cock to run her hot fingers over its pulsing length. Erik groaned at every touch, as her breath teased his mask with moisture––

"Wait, Christine––" he growled and crushed her to him, forcing her fingers from his shaft; his own buried between the crush of their bodies as his hot breath warmed her flesh.

With senseless fingers Christine clawed at his shoulders, pleading, "_I want you––_"

"Do you, my love?" Erik sighed. His tongue darted between his lips to taste her skin; drawing a palm to her flesh he watched her expression contort as he twisted a nipple curiously between two fingers, and gave a long exhale as she gasped and shivered atop him. She arched her spine, sighing, as now Erik took up her breast in his mouth––sucking, pulling, biting––he chewed the tender flesh until she cried out breathlessly above him; he made hypnotic circles about her nipple with his tongue until the pink skin shone silver with its wet tracks.

Christine watched the whites of his strange eyes behind the mask as he looked steadily up at her from her chest.

There were images, whispering and dancing in the blinding fire at the corners of her vision––pleading, sneaking, cutting––they wanted in, they wanted in––

It was too much––_she did not want to think of that_––

"_I know my own mind,_" Christine said suddenly, too-late and overloud––she met his gaze seriously, frowning––then her expression clouded, and she brought a white palm to her face to press her fingertips against her forehead, even as he sucked at her flesh.

Erik broke from her breast to look up at her. He frowned.

"Do you really, Christine?"

"Yes," she breathed, distracted. She blinked and crushed her lids shut.

Beneath her, Erik took up his cock in a hand; he dragged a careful palm atop her thigh to spread her unresisting legs, and slid his wet tip along the red mouth of her sex.

Suddenly Christine turned her head about and gasped, as every muscle in her body burst into rigid tension beneath Erik's grasp. Her nails dug into the bloodless flesh of his shoulders. Her eyes widened into white saucers as she stared, unblinking into the enveloping dark.

"_What was that?_" she hissed.

Erik released his length to grip her to him by her thighs. He followed her gaze with placid interest, as a parent might follow a child's urgent desire to reveal a secret nest of faery-folk. Christine turned urgently to him, whispering, "did you see it?"

"It was nothing, my dear…nothing…" he said, his words like silk, as he watched the pale flesh between her breasts shiver with every mad hammering of her heartbeat.

With his palm still resting carefully atop her thigh, he brought his thumb low to stroke again at her clit.

"Just a feint of the dark. Look at me, all right? All is well…remember that, Christine. All is well."

"No, no…" she said breathlessly, and returned her feverish gaze to his, "it was him, it's always him…_oh…I'm so tired––it's too hot, it hurts––_"

"_Christine, focus––_you're all right_––_" Erik said gently. Again he brought his thumb to his mouth as Christine followed his movements vacantly; he soaked it crudely with a wet slip of his tongue and returned it to her sex, working the too-swollen nub of her clit with a new vigor, breathing, "_c__ome on, love––_"

Christine gave a weak groan. "Angel…I see him everywhere…he is always with me…he follows me wherever I go…"

"Does he, Christine?" Erik watched her curiously, as below, he entered her with two fingers.

"Have you seen him? In the Opera, especially––he is always with me––_oh_––_I do not like the dark––_" She looked down between the crush of their bodies and gave a low exhale. "You will keep me safe, Angel," she added.

Erik pinched her clit to force her whimpering cry and drove her roughly upon his fingers; distracted, Christine dug her nails into the rigid tendons of his biceps. She met his eye and frowned.

"Angel… _I really am so tired…"_

Now she turned as if dreaming to stare absently into the hearth. Erik pushed his fingers inside of her, he stroked a mad rhythm atop her clit and still she watched the flames, muttering, "his eyes…like fires in the dark…burning, burning…always burning…"

Erik watched the sputtering blaze reflected in the empty whites of her eyes and sighed. His fingers slackened atop her sex; he held her sweating legs to his by her thighs.

When Christine would not turn away from the hearth he caught her chin between a thumb and long finger to direct her from it. In silence he passed a careful hand over her cheek and capturing one stray curl among thousands, tucked the silken strand behind her ear.

"Like fires, my love," Christine repeated, meeting his gaze, "….black fires…."

Her eyes narrowed as they bore into his.

"…_fires…_" she breathed, staring.

"Angel, it burns…_what should I do?_"

Erik considered her a moment.

"I want you to kiss me, Christine," he said quietly, "please. Will you do that?"

But as soon as he'd said the words Christine worked her fingers in his hair, tugging and twisting, holding her tremulous weight against him by his scalp––she dragged him to her face and wrenched back his head to kiss him wetly, thoughtlessly––

Then she broke from him to stare again into the dark, even as her nails dug fiercely into the back of his head.

Erik swiped the flat of his hand across his lips. He brought his hands to his scalp to loosen hers upon him; as she held them, frozen about him like a trembling halo, he straightened his disordered mask and smoothed an easy palm atop his hair from forehead to neck.

Now he turned his attention to Christine, still staring absently into the dark.

Erik sighed. "Christine––_look at me_––do you know where you are?"

She turned to him quickly, frowning as if she'd forgotten he was beneath her.

"Yes," she said seriously.

He frowned. "Where do you think you are, my love?" he repeated.

Christine raised a limp arm to drag a heavy palm over his cheek atop his mask. Her fingers skirted its edges to tease beneath the dark leather; Erik jerked away from her touch unconsciously, with a snorted exhale. As soon as he had shaken her from him her searching fingers returned to his face.

"It was dark, by the lake…is that your lake?" she murmured, her eyes following her caresses. "I don't like the dark..."

"Do you know who I am?"

Now she fixed her gaze to his. "Angel,_ yes––_"

"_Sweet Ophelia," _Erik said sadly, after a pause. Christine smiled.

He glanced at his cock throbbing painfully between the crush of their bodies, rising up like a curse from the sheer flesh to slap in bitter irony upon her pink curves.

He hated the thing.

God laughed to give it to him. He was a genius, he knew, a master of any subject he decided to claim as his––and yet this, this wretched pile of useless flesh, controlled him. He had the violin, the piano––his voice––but this, this was _his_ instrument.

He had only ever wanted to be loved.

To be looked at, with love.

By Christine. _Alive._

And now, before him, little Christine was frowning again, her dead eyes shut tight in the marble sweetness of her face.

_Surrender._

Erik sighed, as unnoticed, he took up his cock in a dead fist––

"I'm going to fuck you again, Christine," he said softly, watching her with the barest tilting of his head. "Do you understand?"

"Right, of course…" breathed Christine. She pressed both thumbs to her temples; with a sigh she dropped her head to rest against his shoulder.

He drew a cautious palm over her hair. "Is that all right, Christine?"

"Yes, yes," she muttered against his skin. With a finger he tipped her chin to see her face; he stared at her a moment, even as her eyelids began to close again atop her glassed eyes. Then he released her to drop heavily upon his chest.

"I'm a little tired," she sighed, and he felt the tickling brush of her eyelashes upon the cold flesh of his collarbone.

Now with his palms beneath her rear Erik resettled her atop him, as she moved weakly, unresisting, to his guidance.

He buried his lips in her tangle of hair to press a gentle kiss upon her forehead.

"Poor Christine, my love," Erik said raggedly, "forgive me for this…"

He directed her hips atop his shaft. As he entered her, Christine gave a whimpering sigh and reached about his neck to hang from his shoulders; he groaned throatily and arranged her legs about his back to bury his full length within her.

He moved purposely, steadily––he clutched at the soft flesh of her rear with both hands to drive her, slowly, atop him, as Christine worked her fingernails into the bones of his spine and rolled her hips mindlessly atop the slow thrusting of his cock, as her head bobbed limply upon his shoulder.

"Kiss me," Erik growled. She tilted her face toward him; in his skeleton's grip he captured her jaw as she pressed her lips clumsily to his. He released her to slouch against him.

"Angel?" she breathed into his chest.

"Yes, my love?" he directed her over him again; she gave a quiet moan as he filled her.

"Only, it's the strangest thing, really_––_" Christine mused, and steadied her forehead in the hollow of his shoulder, "have I ever told you?"

Again Christine sought his face, suddenly crushing her dry lips to his.

Erik broke the kiss to groan upon her open mouth,"tell me what, Christine?"

"Oh…" she began, as if she'd already forgotten, "I'm afraid I've caught a cold…it burns, Angel..."

Erik regarded her. "It will pass, Christine," he said gently, after a pause.

"I really don't feel quite right at all…"

He panted to the slow thrusting of his hands upon her hips. "Yes, my love…_it will pass._"

A pause, as Erik grunted softly above her. "It's the strangest thing…Angel?"

He said nothing, and shuddered a long exhale behind the mask.

"Did you know… Angel…did you know my Papa sent you to me?"

"Yes, sweet girl," he murmured.

"You look so much like him…"

Erik gave a shallow sigh. "Do I, my love?"

"Yes…Angel…not before…but now, how strange––" She gave the barest shake of her head, shivering her sticking cascade of damp curls down her back and upon her chest––she dropped her gaze again to the tangle of their bodies between them and frowned–– "_oh_––strange––really––"

"Christine––look up at me, love––" Erik said, and directed her chin, too roughly, with the sweating flat of his hand.

She met his eyes and smiled serenely. "Did you know him?"

"Did I know who, darling?"

"_Papa,_ Angel––"

"Oh––yes, sweet girl…of course I did," he panted.

Christine gave only a low hum in answer. Again she was staring between their crushed bodies, as her own hips rocked upon his to the guiding pressure of his hand on her rear, to his slow rhythm as he moved within her. Frowning, she met his gaze, then tipped her head to the side as her lids dropped over her eyes.

"No, don't close your eyes, all right, Christine––"

She blinked. "Is he with you?"

"Who, love?"

"_Papa!_" she said, and she almost laughed, then "_oh––_" as Erik ground her roughly against him with a shallow groan.

"Yes, my love," he sighed, recovering, "of course…he's here."

"Yes…yes, I thought so…only it's the strangest thing…"

Erik said nothing and crushed her hips faster upon his cock, "––_oh_––" she gasped, then panted, "but he is dead, Angel––"

Another thrust, another cry, "dead––_oh, God_––

"You're not him––"

"Oh, Christine…" Erik said sadly, pausing, "am I not?"

A queer expression washed across her features even as she rolled her hips upon him. Her pale brow furrowed; she gave a shuddering exhale. Her glass stare widened beneath his gaze, as she breathed,_"Papa?"_

"Hush, now," Erik sighed, "no, Christine, no…you sweet girl…no, I am not your father." For a moment she stared at him, squinting intently.

Then her gaze clouded over and her forehead returned limply to his shoulder, bobbing softly upon his collarbone as he drove her atop him, again, again. "How silly of me," she muttered, "silly––_oh_––I thought I saw the strangest thing, really…" She blew a ragged pant upon his stone flesh as Erik pressed his leather cheek to her curls and groaned above her.

"Look at me," he said raggedly. His bottom lip dragged upon her unresisting forehead, moistening the hot skin. "Christine––_here, please_––can you do that for me?––_oh, God, fuck, Christine_––can you keep your head up for me?"

Again she raised her chin to gaze dully upon his mask.

"I don't like this," she said, after a moment, and trailed listless fingertips across the leather even as her body rocked against his chest. Erik frowned.

She fixed her clouded stare again upon the mask. "I don't like looking at it."

"_Christine,_" he huffed. Strangling a sound with a snorting exhale, his grip slackened upon her rear; again he stilled, panting, within her.

"I don't want to look at it," Christine repeated, staring. "Show me, Angel––where is the Angel?"

"He's here, Christine," said Erik slowly, "I'm here, my love." His muscles tensed beneath her clutching fingers; like knives, his rigid tendons carved the sweating flesh of his throat, standing out dangerously from the glistening skin––

"Please," Christine whined, and rocked her senseless hips atop his; he shuddered a groan as she drove herself upon him. "_Angel––show me the Angel!"_

Now her fingertips brushed, careless, atop his leather cheeks, his chest, his throat––her wild eyes following her own mad fingers––every touch, pleading, begging––then she drew them up again to pad the smooth edges of the mask upon his jaw, meeting his black stare, her face so close to his––her gaze blank and desperate––

"_Angel––it frightens me––_" Christine breathed, and he felt the taunting heat of it upon his skin, felt it seethe beneath his leather flesh, clutching and scraping like so many fingers–– _He had tried, and still she did not want him_––_an Angel, she would never understand_––

Quietly, silkily, he said, "you don't have to look at Erik's mask if you don't want to, Christine."

For a moment––an eternity––Erik watched her, his eyes leaden pits as they bore into hers.

Christine groped carelessly at the ruined flesh of his malformed lip––both thumbs pressing, distorting the tender skin atop his clenched teeth, as his breath hissed out between them––

"_I'm so frightened––" _Christine said, again, and drew herself forward to crush her lips to the white line of his closed mouth. "_Show me––"_ She rolled her hips upon his still cock, rigid and demanding inside her; she laced her fingers about the back of his throat to draw him to her, to kiss him, again––repeating, "_show me, show me––_"

The black eyes narrowed behind the mask.

With a sudden violence Erik broke from her lips and turned her upon his lap. They separated at the hip with an obscene sound; Christine gave a confused cry and clutched at his wrists even as his arms spun her about. He wrenched her back against his chest, smothering his sticking cock in the hot cleft of her rear. With his legs he forced her passive thighs apart, opening her lewdly to the surrounding dark.

"_Angel!_" she cried––

He circled her with his arms, imprisoning her body within them. He slid his thumb along the red folds of her sex––Christine whimpered––as the cool fingers of his other hand trailed over the sensitive flesh of her inner thigh, pinching at the pale skin at the crux of her leg as he drew her flustered limbs further apart.

"Is this better, my love?" growled Erik from behind her, his siren's voice dangerously placid, as his lip dragged the hot flesh of her cheek, "mad, frightened Christine…she never liked to see the truth…_now she need not see Erik at all!_"

Christine groaned as her head fell back against his jaw. Her hair piled madly between them as Erik buried his face into the silken mass, blowing and snorting the curls aside to chew at her white earlobe––

He thrust two fingers again into the hot mouth of her sex, as his opposite thumb resumed its tortuous rhythm upon her swollen clit. Christine writhed into his touch, crushing his rigid cock between their bodies as she moved––

"Little Christine, always dreaming, always dreaming, _dreaming in her little bed_––it's never sweet Christine's fault, is it––" he bit her earlobe, "––_is it, Christine_––no, not if she can say it never happened…blame Erik, it's Erik who's done it all, Erik who's done everything––all the rest is just pretend––"

Now, with his mouth still crushed to her ear, he added, wetly, "_is that not what you came here for, Christine? To pretend?_"

When she made no answer Erik growled and thrust a third finger into her sex; she cried out as he whispered his taunts in her ear, another for every mulish carom of his fingers––

"Teasing poor Erik, with your little screams––and never once opening your eyes for him! But Erik knows just how to make her sing––_yes, Christine, sing, Christine!_––ah, hah––how very much she used to like it––soaking her sheets as she did––"

"_Angel!_" Christine started, as her body heaved limply against his chest. She clutched at his wrists even as his murderous fingers worked at her cunt, mindlessly digging her nails into the translucent flesh; he gave a carnal growl at her timid assault and buried his teeth at the base of her white throat.

When she cried out he released her to breathe an inhuman laugh in her ear.

"You never said, Christine, what you dreamt of, every night in your deep, deep, sleep…And all the while, what sweet songs your Orpheus would play in your ear! But she's still pretending––_it's all pretend, always pretend_––he wanted you alive, sweet girl, and he's still not had you, no, no––" he pressed his tongue in her ear as she squealed and complained, hissing, "_because little Christine just can't dream without her Erik…Sweet Christine has forgotten how!_"

Now he was breathing roughly behind her, as his sweat slid down his chest to pool between their bodies. He broke from her for a moment, no more––Christine gave a gutteral sigh of relief––and drew his hand up to his mouth buried in the crux of her shoulder, sniffed lewdly, snorting the sound in her ear, then stuffed his sour fingers carnally between his lips; he spat loudly into his palm and thrust the hand back into her sex.

"Such sweet dreams, were they not, Christine?" he demanded, when she gave a yelping groan at his new vigor. "_And now, she wants the dreams back!_"

With her cheek pressed to his Erik dragged his hot tongue down the side of her face. "_Ah_––will she die now, die again, in Erik's tomb with him?" he continued in a voice nothing like his own, as still his undulating fingers worked relentlessly at her sex, "_little corpse Christine_––we can lay together in the little coffin, love––sleep there together, forever––

"Strange, sad little dead Christine… is that what you wanted? What you came here for? To die here, with Erik?"

Her thighs trembled uncontrollably, the muscles jumping and shaking; Erik forced them against his with the searing pressure of his pointed elbows, forced her open, wider against him––

"Angel!" she cried, as her cunt seized and shivered about his demanding fingers, "_Angel!_"

"_Yes_, Christine," he growled without slowing, "sing for me again, my little dove…"

She arched her back into the shuddering curve of his chest. She chewed her lip, groaning between her teeth; she clapped her hand to her mouth to silence the sound. Her legs stretched and slid out in front of her, tangling about his rigid thighs as he ground her to him by her cunt––

"She's always sung so, so prettily for Erik––"

His hand pounded at her entrance, over and over in a bruising rhythm, relentlessly slapping against her sticking flesh––his hot cock stabbing like a blade at her sex from behind––

"Angel, Angel!_"_ she repeated, for lack of other words, throwing her head back as his teeth bore down again upon the delicate skin at the base of her throat. She caved against him, writhing into his grasp, her every sound breathless, her moans choking her breaths––"_Angel!_"

"Sing, Christine––_for the Angel of Music!"_

And now she screamed, obscenely, as only an animal can scream, as Erik pinched her swollen clit, twisting it mercilessly between his fingers to revel in the perfect sound––_her living scream_––

Christine was spent and shaking upon his intolerable fingers, and still he would not release her; he could not, he had no control of _him _now––and yet he knew he hurt her––but more, more, he needed more––_he needed her to scream for him_––a scream for every time she had said nothing, a scream for each time he forgot––

He entered her faster, deeper, as his knuckles beat against her sex with each thrust, grinding and torturing her red clit––Christine kicked out, she clawed at his flesh with her fingertips––again she screamed, loud, breathless––burning, burning, burning––

And behind her Erik hissed his hot breath in her ear––

"_Do you remember now, Christine?_"

But she remembered nothing, thought nothing, as she shook flaccidly in his grasp. Because there was nothing, nothing but the Angel, and the feeling––the feeling that his presence could bring her––the feeling she felt––here––in the dark––oh, so many times––

_The blessing of the Angel––_

And she knew it, she knew it well––

_Such ignorance, such emptiness––such bliss––_

Hardened with fatigue, his unyeilding muscles shook with violent tremors as Erik held her against him; sweat beaded on his forehead to disappear in wet trails behind his disordered mask. His cock, slick and hurting, teased the stinging entrance of her cunt with every cruel thrust of his fingers, its pressure milk-wet upon her skin––and Christine, only a body beneath his hands––only a corpse––numb, thoughtless, lifeless in his surrounding arms––

_The Angel's wings!_

"Dead or alive, no man may have you but Erik," he growled against her wet flesh, "I will kill you before you are touched by another!"

And again Erik felt the core of her cunt seizing, shuddering around his merciless fingers––again Christine was sweating, crying, her nails deep in the flesh of his marble thighs as he groaned against her––now her flailing fingers groped behind to pull his hair, to trace the leather cords that fanned like so many black veins across his scalp––

"_You belong to me!_"

She screamed his name then, slack against him, her exhausted body spent––but in her shaking fingers she had the mask––that terrible black shroud––and with a groan she flung it from her––

As the darkness swallowed the thing Erik had her, wrenching her from him at the waist to toss her down upon the twisted mass of the cloak. In an instant, he was upon her, his purple cock urgent at her opening.

"_Look at the face of the Devil, Christine!"_ he roared, _"Look at Erik's face!"_

Then, with a savage groan, he entered her, again.

* * *

_**A/N, again:**__ hey, I'm really sorry about this too. I'd love to hear your interpretations of what is going on at this point––it will help me a lot with the next chapter. (Only 2 chaps left!) Love you all for sticking with this dumpster fire_


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